


Quick, Grab the Cheese Wheels and Run!

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-03
Updated: 2008-03-21
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 87,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Ginny Weasely is stuck as Maid of Honor in two separate, highly unconventonal weddings. She's none too happy about the situation, as it only reminds her that she is Without a Wizard. To top things off, she's hungry, and she's not allowed to eat her hat...





	1. Bananas, Anyone?

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**_Hi ya'll! Yes, this is charmingly-holly from ff.net if you're reading this story over there right now. So no, I didn't steal this story, it's mine. For the most part anyways (see pointless disclaimer below...)_**

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I own the Chiquita Banana Girl logo.

Chapter One: Bananas, Anyone?  


“Miss Weasley! What _are_ you doing?”� an irate voice screeched from directly behind me.

I jumped and hid the apple that had been mere centimeters from entering my mouth behind my back. Which was an exceedingly unintelligent thing to do, considering the circumstances, as the angry screeching was coming from directly behind me.

Therefore, the apple was immediately snatched from my grasp, thus denying me the opportunity to consume the juicy goodness and satiate my growling stomach. It was already rather cross with me for not feeding it anything that morning, and it held no qualms about telling me about it. But I had been in a hurry and breakfast had been the furthest thing from my mind as I’d bundled up in my winter clothes and fallen (quite literally) down the stairs of my London apartment and out the door to brave the snowy blizzard that consumed the city. 

It was _rather_ cold outside.

My stomach didn’t find this a suitable excuse, however, and it was forcibly reminding me that my extreme hunger was due to the fact that I’d unplugged the alarm clock from the wall the night before in the hopes that I’d accidentally on purpose sleep through the appointment the next morning… 

And what a horrendous appointment it was.

I scrunched my eyes closed and turned towards the voice-emitter.

“Ummmm…nothing?”� I tried, while cracking an eye open and peaking at the angry storeowner in front of me through my eyelashes.

She was glaring at me, one hand on her hip and the other waving the apple in front of my nose threateningly. I jerked my head away from the fruit-turned-weapon causing my hat, already tottering precariously atop my head, to slip down over my eyes.

Madam Malkin huffed and shoved my hat back into place with such force that I stumbled backwards and nearly fell off my pedestal and into a pile of what looked like rectangular lamp shades sitting to the side of my perch. Odd thing to find in a clothing store, but it being Diagon Alley, I wasn’t overly surprised. 

“How many _times_ must I tell you _not_ to eat your _HAT_?”�

I looked at her blankly and contemplated her words. Did she realize how ridiculous that question sounded?

Obviously not, as her hands were now flitting about above my head straightening the various pieces of fruit fixed to my hat and ranting about the atrocious behavior she was exposed to in her line of work.

“…young people today…no respect…always complaining…you would _think_ they could follow _simple_ instructions…but, noooo, they still eat their hats when I _specifically_ tell them not to…honestly, what is the world coming to?...why, in my day…”�

She continued along this same line of rantage until she finally found a suitable place for the residence of the filched apple and fixed it securely to the towering pile of fruit atop my poor head.

She stood back and examined her work with narrowed eyes before giving a nod of satisfaction, snapping her head towards me, and fixing me with an accusatory glare.

She jabbed a finger at me, “If I catch you eating your hat again, Miss Weasley, I will be putting a full body bind on you and using you as a mannequin until closing time!”� She gave one last jab of her finger before huffing and bustling off towards a rather corpulent man who had just come out of the dressing room wearing a loincloth.

I wrinkled my nose at the sight and turned back to examine my attire in the demonic three-way mirror behind me. I sighed. There was no use trying to convince myself otherwise. It was simple fact.

I looked like the Chiquita Banana Girl.

No really, I did. Even the demonic mirror agreed. “Oh my,”� it said, three dry and raspy voices emitting from it at the same time, “I hadn’t realized it was Halloween. I feel it’s my duty to tell you you’re costume is atrocious…”�

I had scowled at the mirror and scrunched my nose at my hat, resigning myself to looking like the Chiquita Banana Girl. Or at least looking like her from the neck up. The rest of me was wearing normal robes as Madam Malkin hadn’t yet forced me into the remaining pieces of my outfit.

Of course, I didn’t exactly _know_ what the rest of the outfit looked like, but I figured that if the hat was any indication, I wouldn’t be overly excited about adorning it.

My stomach emitted a loud growl, and I once again considered the advantages of stealing one of the fruits on top of my head.

On the one hand, I was starving. As I mentioned before, I hadn’t had breakfast in my hurry to get to the fitting, and at the rate this fitting was going, I wouldn’t be able to escape to get some lunch either. 

On the other hand, I didn’t want to be mannequin for the rest of the afternoon. It would be exceptionally boring, and I didn't too much fancy modeling the newest line of Inflatable Underwear that had become popular among various adolescents looking for a laugh.

I weighed the options in my mind and came to the conclusion that being a mannequin for a few short hours would beat starving to death on my pedestal and collapsing in a heap of malnutritioned human into the pile of lamp shades beside me.

I snuck a quick glance at Madam Malkin. She was attempting to minimize the obviousness of the man in the corner’s excessive girth by expanding the back of his loincloth. She wasn’t having much luck, especially since the man seemed none-too-happy about his current situation and wasn’t holding back on telling her about it. He was turning with her every time she attempted to get around him to point her wand at his back-end and shaking a sausage-like finger at her, going purple in the face.

She finally disappeared behind his rotund belly, giving me a chance to make the steal. I quickly turned my gaze back to the mirror and reached my hand up to grab the previously-filched apple.

However, just as my hand was closing around the blessed juicy-goodness, a soft, dreamy voice sounded from behind me.

“I wouldn’t eat that if I were you. It might be infested with Linklenorgs,”� it said. I squeaked and spun around, my hand still grasping the apple.

Luna Lovegood was standing behind me, staring dreamily at the pineapple residing in the center of my Chiquita Banana Girl Hat.

I removed my hand from the apple and gaped at her in shock.

If I thought _my_ hat was big…

Luna was also wearing a Chiquita Banana Girl Hat, only hers was about three times the size of mine. While mine consisted of a straw contraption with a pineapple in the center surrounded by a few varieties of fruit, Luna’s was in the form of a massive blue bowl overflowing with grapes, apples, oranges, two _entire_ pineapples, pears, bananas, and even kiwis, all surrounding a perfectly sliced, quarter of a watermelon.

It had to weigh at least twenty pounds.

Well, it _was_ her wedding. She could wear whatever she wanted.

She could even make _me_ , being the Maid of Honor, wear whatever she wanted. Which was, of course, why I was a human fruit basket on a pedestal.

I slowly shut my mouth and moved my gaze to her face, “Linklenorgs?”� I asked, too used to her quirkiness to comment on the hat.

She nodded, “They infest fruit and cause the consumer to fall into a deep slumber that may only be broken by the kiss of a handsome prince.”�

I stared at her again, “Um, Luna? Isn’t that Snow White?”�

She nodded again, “Where do you think they got the idea?”� she asked before smiling vaguely and slowly wandering towards the fitting rooms, her arms outstretched and her head bobbing to either side as the hat swayed and teetered on it’s perch on top of her head.

It was conversations such as these that made me understand Luna’s choice to have a Luau for her wedding. What else should I have expected?

I stared after her for a while before sighing and turning back to check on the whereabouts of Madam Malkin. I was hoping she would still be busy with the loincloth-bedecked fat man so that I could attempt a repeat of the filching of the apple.

No such luck.

Madam Malkin was just completing her role as a Good Samaritan and was adding the finishing touches to her rather excessive expansion of the back-end of the man’s loincloth, and it was now completely covering his hefty posterior. Thank Merlin.

She gave one last flick of her wand before shooing him away and turning to scan the room for her next victim.

Her eyes, of course, alighted on my face before shooting up to my fruit basket to inspect for any missing produce. Finding none out of place, she narrowed her eyes and turned to a rack of robes beside her. She shuffled through them quickly before picking out a hanger and bustling over to me with her selection. I assumed it was the remainder of my attire.

She reached me and grabbed my shirt collar, yanking me from the pedestal and dragging me across the room. She opened a fitting room door and shoved me inside, once again causing my hat to fall over my eyes.

She stuffed something in my hands, “Now, put these on,”� she ordered. And then added, “And don’t you dare eat them too!”� before slamming the fitting room door with a bang.

My stomach filled with a leaden ball of dread at her mention of even more edible clothing. I freed one hand from the bundle she had given me and pushed my hat back from my eyes, blowing at a stray piece of hair that had fallen in my face. I looked down and slowly raised my hands in front of my face.

I blanched and my mouth fell open at the sight.

In one hand I grasped a hula skirt and bright pick lei.

But that wasn’t what was causing my dismay. No, that wasn’t it at all.

My dismay had arisen from the simple fact that there, hanging loosely from my fingers and knocking against each other softly, were two highly polished halves...of a coconut.

Luna Lovegood was having me wear a coconut bra at her wedding.

Her _outdoor_ wedding.

That was in _February_.

Sweet Merlin, help me.


	2. When Escape Plans Go Awry

**_Alright, next chapter! Read and Review chillies!_ **

When Excape Plans Go Awry  


Have you ever had one of those dreams where you accidentally show up to work naked and everyone is staring at you and someone floos the Magical Department of Public Safety and the police-wizards come and arrest you and bind your hands behind your back and haul you off to jail but on the way someone manages to snap your picture and then your family disowns you because your buck-naked on the front of the _Daily Prophet_ and the police-wizards throw you in a cell and you realize you’re not alone because there’s a woman named Bubba in the corner and she’s a lot bigger than you and she’s smiling in a distinctly evil way and cracking her knuckles and all you can think about are those articles you read in _Witch Weekly_ that tell you about what _really_ goes on in prison so you hurl yourself out the window because you’d rather die than wait around to find out what Bubba has in store for you and just as you hit the ground you wake up screaming?

Ya, well I was pretty sure that was what was happening. Dreaming, that is. Me. Dreaming. One of those really weird dreams like the one mentioned to your up.

I decided that I must be dreaming because not even _Luna_ would make us wear a coconut bra in the middle of February. For her wedding. With fruit baskets on our heads.

Really, it was completely ridiculous. No possible way there was any truth in it. Had to be a dream, right?

Right?

I decided that just to be safe I should pinch myself.

So I did.

It hurt.

Rather badly, in all truth. Probably I would have a bruise. Which Madame Malkin would probably get angry about because it would be purple, which did not go with green, which was the color of my hula skirt. Oh the inhumanity.

But the point is it hurt. Which meant that I wasn’t dreaming. Which meant that I was really going to be wearing a coconut bra and a fruit basket during Luna’s wedding.

Which meant that I needed a Plan. An Escape Plan, to be exact.

After contemplating my situation for close to ten minutes, I decided that I had three options.

Option A: Move to the Canadian Wilderness and survive on what the land provides. Who knows? Frozen caribou might not be so bad with a little salt. Which I suppose I would have to extract from bear pee or something since I don’t think salt grows in the Canadian Wilderness. In fact, I don’t think salt grows at all.

Right. We’ll scratch Canada, then.

Perhaps Sri Lanka…

So, moving on to Option B: Filch the apple from my hat, sit in the corner, and devour it like there was no tomorrow so I wouldn’t die of starvation when Madame Malkin turned me into a mannequin.

And Option C: Run away. Far, far away.

I rather liked Option C as I didn’t too much fancy eating pee-extracted-salt and I still didn’t want to become an Inflatable Human Bra.

So, I crept over to the dressing room door, opened it the tiniest fraction of a crack, and peeked out into the Cosmic Vortex of Doom, otherwise known as Madame Malkin’s fitting room.

The room was a-bustle in activity.

But, more importantly, Madame Malkin was once again occupied with the loin-cloth-bedecked-fat-man. Except now he was more of a loin-cloth-bedecked-fat-with-feathers because he was adorned with what looked to be an Indian Tribal Headdress. Briefly I wondered why he was dressed in such attire, but those thoughts were soon ousted by more pressing matters. Such as what the best route from my position in the Dressing Room of Doom to the Door of Escapation might be.

I decided that the best course of action would be to slip out of the dressing room and behind the oncoming rack of dresses. Then, I would be able to jump behind the display of dress robes for the upcoming Yule Ball at Hogwarts. From there, I could army crawl to the pile of shoeboxes in the corner, jump up, and make a mad dash out the Door of Escapation.

And then find some warm clothes so I wouldn’t get frostbite.

It was flawless.

I kept my eye to the crack of the door and watched the rack of dresses creep closer and closer.

When it was a few feet away, I slowly opened the door a little wider so I could slip out unnoticed. The cart got to be even with the door, and I jumped behind the rack and crouched over so I wouldn’t be seen and to add to the effect of my Escape Mission, and stayed behind the rack until I reached the display of dress robes. I quickly jumped behind a mannequin wearing a bright pink dress robe, prayed I wasn’t soon to be joining her in her statue-like position, and peered around her to assess my position.

I was approximately 14.7 feet from the doorway and 10.3 feet from the pile of shoe boxes. Madame Malkin was nowhere to be seen, and my path from the mannequin to the shoeboxes seemed to be clear.

Roger that, Alpha Beta K.

How good am I at making plans?

I dropped to my stomach behind the dress robes display, pushed my hat away from my eyes, and army crawled to the shoe boxes. I got to them, stood up, swiveled my head back and forth like a true criminal on the run…and saw Madame Malkin turning her head towards my corner.

I decided that my best bet would be to make a run for it.

So I did.

Only the hat fell back over my eyes, which caused me to flail about trying to find my way to the door, which caused me to lose control of my feet, which caused me to trip, which caused me to take a flying leap into the pile of newly-arrived Inflatable Underwear.

Which caused them all to inflate and the room to go silent.

That is, except for Madame Malkin.

She was going, “GINEVRA WEASELY! YOU…YOU… _GINEVRA WEASELY_! YOU’VE INFLATED ALL MY UNDERWEAR!...WHY, IN ALL MY DAYS…”� etc., etc., and to be continued.

I could hear her throwing the underwear out of her way in her effort to get to me, and I decided that I was most definitely soon to be a mannequin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least I wouldn’t be wearing the Coconut Boobs.

Just underwear. That inflates.

Right.

I was pondering these facts when the inflated pink bra in front of my face was snatched away and Madame Malkin’s irate countenance was suddenly looming before me.

She stopped in her tirade when she saw me and her eyes narrowed. “Fine,”� she said, “If you refuse to dress yourself, _I’ll_ do it _for you_!”�

And then she grabbed my ear and hauled me out of the underwear.

“Owwwwwwww!”� I said. Because that _hurt_. Seriously, I can see why this method of discipline is successful.

Madame Malkin whipped out her wand and summoned the Coconut Boobs and hula skirt from my dressing room. She caught them with one hand and yanked me up onto my pedestal with her other. Then she flicked her wand again, and a flowery curtain was suddenly surrounding my pedestal.

She held the garments out towards me, “I suggest you put these one _right now_ unless you want me to do it for you.”�

I resisted the urge to tell her that she already _said_ that she was going to do it for me, and that she must not be very true to her word if she’d changed her mind. But I thought that probably wouldn’t be too smart. Probably I would be a mannequin before I could say, “The Linklenorgs made me do it.”�

So, I took the clothing from her and sighed resignedly.

Madame Malkin gave a satisfied grunt, and turned around...and stood there...not leaving.

Wasn’t she going to leave?

I tapped her on the shoulder, “Erm, aren’t you going to leave?”� I asked.

She snorted, “Ha! And have you destroy something _else_ in my store? I think not!”� She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot impatiently.

Oh now really, I didn’t _destroy_ anything. Only inflated a couple bras. Is that such a horrible crime?

I sighed again and looked at the Coconut Boobs. Ah well, there was nothing else for it. I glared towards Madame Malkin’s back as I undressed and put the outfit on quickly.

“Fine. I put it on. Are you happy now?”�

She glanced over her shoulder and then turned around. Her eyes narrowed speculatively and she began circling me like some sort of vulture. I shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Suddenly she stopped behind me and pulled on the twine of the Coconut Boobs, “This is too loose,”� she stated. She grabbed the strings, untied them, tugged on them, and then tied them so tight that I could hardly breathe.

“Much better,”� she said, walking around to my front, and looking me up and down. She gave a nod of approval and whipped the curtains open to reveal the dreaded three way mirror. I stood there in shock, gaping at my reflection. I looked like one of those bobble-head hula girls that people stick to the front of their broomsticks.

Only worse.

Because, you know, I had red hair and freckles. And I was really pale. Not a good combination when you’re wearing a hula outfit. Probably little children on the streets were going to scream and run away.

Not that I would be wearing this on the streets, it was only a metaphor.

“Oh dear,”� wheezed the three voices of the mirror, “It never entered my mind you could make that costume any more atrocious. You really can’t pull that look off…”�

My stomach growled again as I glared at the mirror, and then I glanced up at the apple on my hat. Unfortunately, Madame Malkin saw where my gaze was going and narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t even think about it Miss Weasley. You go change out of that right now, and I’ll get your next outfit ready.”�

My stomach growled again, “But I’m _hungry_ ,”� I whined, and then I realized what she had said, “What next outfit? There’s more than one?”�

Madame Malkin just looked at me, “Yes there’s more than one, considering there’s _more_ than _one_ fitting.”�

A bell tinkled as the door to the store was opened, and we both looked over to see Hermione Granger step inside, clutching a scarf around her neck with one hand and dragging a very reluctant Ronald Weaseye behind her with the other.

I groaned, I had forgotten.

“Ron, I _told_ you already. We have to come to the fitting so that our _clothes_ will fit on our _wedding day_. Or have you forgotten that we’re getting married in three days, as well as when you were supposed to meet me for the fitting?”�

Hermione let go of his hand and began unwinding the scarf from her neck and shaking the snow out of her mane of bushy brown hair.

Ron stumbled in behind her and took his hat off irritably, “Merlin, woman. Quit nagging me. I have a headache.”� With this proclamation, he groaned and rubbed his temples with his forefingers.

Hermione’s eyes flashed and came very close to emitting sparks, “Nagging? Nagging, am I? Well I wouldn’t have to _nag_ if you didn’t forget things all the time!”� she shrilled, “And it’s your own fault you have a headache. You shouldn’t have stayed up all night watching that stupid television!”�

That’s when the door opened again, letting a fresh whirl of snow enter and producing a bespectacled man wearing a heavy cloak and a green scarf. He froze at the word “television”� and a sheepish look crossed his face.

“Erm, hello Ron, Hermione,”� he said, nodding at Ron and not meeting Hermione’s fiery gaze. They ignored him.

“Hermione, the feletision is not stupid! It’s a bloody brilliant piece of muggle kepology! Isn’t that right, Harry?”� Ron turned towards Harry with an expectant look on his face.

Harry’s eyes widened and he glanced at Hermione, “Erm, uh, well…”�

Hermione cut him off, “This is all your fault anyways, Harry Potter. If you hadn’t bought him that stupid thing, he wouldn’t have stayed up all night watching cartoons!”� she turned towards Ron again, “And it’s a _television_ , Ron. Muggle _technology_.”�

With that, she turned on her heel and started to stomp away from them. That is, until she caught sight of me in all my Hawaiin glory. The she froze mid stomp.

Which really did nothing for my self-esteem.

“ _Ginny?_ ”� she asked incredulously, “What are you _wearing?”�_

Ron and Harry peeked over her shoulders towards me, and their mouths gaped open in shock. Ron recovered first, and he collapsed on the floor in laughter, clutching his stomach and pointing a teasing finger at me. Harry just kept on staring with his mouth hanging open and his eyes fixed on my coconuts.

I glared at Ron, “I’m wearing a hula skirt and a coconut bra. Or can you not see that because you’re eyes have been fried from watching too many of those muggle cartoons? You realize those are for muggle _children_ , right?”� That shut him up.

He got back to his feet and glared at me, “Well then _why_ are you wearing a coconut bra and a hula skirt?”�

“Because I’m moving to Hawaii, Ron,”� I said sarcastically. Ron looked at me in shock, “Oh Merlin, Ron, I was _kidding_. Luna’s decided her wedding’s going to be a Luau.”�

That set him off again, and he resumed his rolling about on the floor. Harry had stopped staring at my coconuts and was now looking at me with a horrified expression on his face.

“A Luau?”� he croaked.

I nodded.

“What do the groomsmen have to wear?”� he asked, not sounding particularly like he wanted to know.

I frowned, “I don’t know. Are you a groomsman?”�

Harry nodded, “Ya.”�

“Well, I seriously doubt it will be worse than this,”� I said gesturing at my attire.

Harry flushed, “Um, right,”� he said, looking down at his feet.

I rolled my eyes. That man was so shy when it came to anything relating to girls. It’s not like he fancied me or anything. There’d been the brief relationship in sixth year, but I’d come to assume that was his last attempt at a normal life before he went gallivanting off to kill Old Moldie. I supposed I’d been some sort of distraction, which I honestly didn’t mind very much, considering why he needed to be distracted. 

Besides, the snogging had been a plus.

But, then again, his shyness was part of the reason he was rated as the Wizarding World’s Most Eligible Bachelor in the latest _Witch Weekly_. He was mysterious and sexy, and the shyness was cute and made him seem chivalrous. As an added bonus, he had saved the entire wizarding world from Moldy Warts himself. Plus, he was incredibly hot.

Not that I’d noticed or anything.

We were only friends. I didn’t care about things like that.

Well, come on! I was allowed to _look_ , wasn’t I? I mean, I have eyes, and I can appreciate what I see with them. But that didn’t mean I had _feelings_ for the guy. I was over it. I just realized that he was incredibly hot. And he had a great personality to boot.

So ya, I didn’t notice all those things.

Anywho, Harry was still staring at his shoes, and Ron was clutching his stomach and saying “Can’t breathe, can’t…breathe…”� as he got up and used Hermione’s shoulder for support.

My stomach growled again, and I glared at it, “Shut _up_ , will you!”� I screamed at it. Ron, Hermione, and Harry looked at me in surprise.

“Erm, Gin?”� asked Harry.

I looked up, “What?”� I snapped irritably.

“Um, who are you talking to?”�

I glared at my stomach again, “My stomach,”� I answered shortly.

“Oh…may I ask why?”�

I looked at him, “Because it’s growling.”�

“Ah…”� he said, and resumed staring at his shoes and flushing.

Honestly, the boy was hopeless.

Ron looked at me innocently, “Oh, are you hungry?”�

I rolled my eyes at him, “No, my stomach is growling because I’ve just had a feast worthy of Hogwarts during Christmas,”� I said sarcastically, “Of course I’m hungry, Ron! I haven’t had anything to eat today!”�

Ron put a contemplative look on his face, “Huh, that’s odd…”� he trailed off, seemingly thinking to himself.

I looked at him, exasperated, “ _What’s_ odd, Ron?”�

He smirked at me, “Well, it’s just, you’re _wearing_ all that food, and you can’t _eat_ it!”� He burst out laughing again, and went back to clutching his stomach.

I ignored him and turned back to the others around my pedestal, “Do any of you have any food?”�

Harry and Hermione shook their heads.

Ron stopped laughing long enough to say, “No, but it looks like _you_ do!”� And then he was on the floor again.

“Oh grow up Ron,”� I said, “And Madame Malkin is over there, so you should probably go over and get your robes.”�

Harry nodded and reached down to grab Ron by his collar and haul him up. The two of them walked off towards Madame Malkin, while Hermione stood with her hands on her hips shaking her head at their backs and sighing.

“I don’t know if he’ll ever grow up,”� she said.

I looked at her and tried to straighten my hat, “Probably not. And you’re marrying him. Have I told you that you’re nutters yet? Because you are.”�

Hermione chuckled, “Yes well, I’m in love with the prat, despite it all.”� She sighed and looked off into space dreamily.

I made a face and waved a hand in front of her, “Herrmiiiiioneeeeee? Snap out of it will you? Yeesh.”�

She blinked and looked at me, “Sorry,”� she said sheepishly.

I rolled my eyes, “I don’t know what it is with you people and falling in love. Really, it doesn’t get you anywhere. I mean, look at _you_ , you’re marrying _Ron_ because of it. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”�

Hermione’s eyes sharpened and her back straightened, a sure sign that she was up to something, “Love is a wonderful thing, Ginny. If you would only give someone a chance, I know this nice guy named Todd…”�

I threw my hand up, “Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. You are _not_ setting me up on another blind date Hermione! Nuh uh. Never again!”�

Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation, “ _Why not?_ ”�

I looked at her blandly, “Remember what happened last time you talked me into one?”�

Hermione looked away, “That wasn’t so bad…”� she trailed off.

“ _Wasn’t_ so _bad_? Hermione! He took me to a muggle _opera_. AND, he didn’t tell me, so I wore _jeans and a t-shirt_. Do you know how painful it is to listen to a bunch of muggles screeching out songs in a foreign language?”�

Hermione put her hands on her hips, “I’m sure it was a very cultural experience that he thought you would enjoy,”� she said.

“And I suppose him snogging the lead singer backstage was a cultural experience I would enjoy as well?”�

Hermione waved her hand dismissively, “Ok, well that was one was just a fluke.”�

I snorted, “Well then I don’t know _what_ you’d call the other one.”�

Hermione shook her finger at me, “That one was your fault, Ginny, and you know it!”�

I looked at her incredulously, “It was not! If that stupid cat had gotten out of my way then I wouldn’t have tripped over it and dumped the gravy on his grandma! Plus, why did he take me to his _grandmother’s_ house for a _date_?”�

Hermione glared, “He probably wanted you to meet his family. I doubt he realized that you would _kill_ his _cat_ and send his _grandmother_ to St. Mungo’s!”�

“It’s not my fault she was allergic to gravy! And _he’s_ the one who trampled the cat trying to get to the woman!”�

Hermione sighed and shook her head, “Ginny, if you would just give Todd a try, I’m sure you’d like him.”�

“No, Hermione.”�

“But he’s so _nice_ …”�

“You go out with him then.”�

“I’m _engaged_ , Ginny.”�

“So you’re admitting you would if you weren’t engaged?”�

“Well, yes I suppose…”�

“A HA,”� I jabbed a finger at her, “See? You’re already wishing you could get rid of Ron and go out with someone else!”� I patted her on the head and sighed pityingly, “You’re trapped by commitment. Unable to break free of your bonds and experience life to the fullest. It’s a shame really, you were always such a clever girl…”�

Hermione shoved my hand away from her head and glared at me, “Honestly, Ginny. Sometimes I think you must be channeling Fred and George. And that is _not_ a compliment.”� And she stomped off towards the fitting rooms.

I smirked at her retreating back and decided I deserved a prize for my witty banter. So, I reached up, grabbed my apple, and took a large, juicy bite.

Ahhhhh, bliss. Pure bliss.

I chewed the apple happily and took another large bite, glancing up at the mirror as I did so.

That’s when I passed out and toppled into the pile of lamp shades.

Partly because I had been denied the opportunity for consumption of food all day long, and two bites of an apple doesn’t go very far.

Partly because Madame Malkin had been rather forceful in the tying of the Coconut Boobs, thus cutting off most of the circulation of blood to my brain.

And partly because I had just inhaled the last bit of my apple when I saw Harry Potter, Man-Who-Conquered, walk out of the dressing room in naught but a loincloth and an Indian Tribal Headdress.


	3. The Grabbing of the Nose

The voices were trying to speak to me, I just knew it. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to say. The words were muddled and blending together, like maybe I was listening to them underwater. Or like when Ron talks while he’s eating.

I’m not crazy. Really, I’m not.

I’m not!

There were voices, and they were trying to speak to me.

Well…kind of. They were technically speaking to each other, but that’s beside the point. The point is that, technically, there were voices. So I’m not crazy. Technically.

Anywho, the voices continued to drone around my head, and I continued to try to figure out what they were saying. I briefly wondered if maybe I _was_ crazy. Normal people don’t hear voices in their heads. Normal people hear voices _outside_ their heads. That belong to other people. Who are normal also.

So, I decided that I was not normal. As in, maybe I was abnormal. But then I heard a voice that I was absolutely positive was not in my head. I must say I was rather relieved.

“It was the Linklenorgs,”� said the voice.

See? Not crazy.

Luna, on the other hand, well…I can’t speak for her.

After Luna voiced her assessment of my situation, which consisted of myself sprawled unconscious on the floor with a lamp shade digging into my back and various curious onlookers surrounding me (probably they just wanted a look at my coconuts), Hermione’s voice entered into my brain.

“There are no such things as Linklenorgs, Luna! If there were, they would be listed in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. As it is, they are not. Therefore, they are _not_ real.”�

“She would know,”� I heard Ron mumble, “She probably has it memorized.”�

I could just see the glare Hermione was sending him.

“We need a handsome prince,”� continued Luna. Apparently she hadn’t heard Hermione’s statement concerning the non-existedness of Linklenorgs.

Hermione sighed exasperatedly. Ron, however, said, “Huh?" Because he's so literate and all.

"We need a handsome prince," Luna repeated.

"…Huh? Why?"

“So he can kiss Ginny.”�

Uh-oh. That wouldn’t sit well with dear Ronnikins.

“WHAT! Kiss Ginny? Oh no, no one will be kissing _my_ baby sister!”�

Oh for Merlin’s sake, I can kiss whomever I want, Ronald _Billius_ , and there is _nothing_ you can do about it! I can kiss _Malfoy_ if I want. I can kiss a _hippogriff_ if I want. In fact, I can kiss _Lavender Brown_ if I want and do a better job of it than you ever did!

I realized I was lecturing Ron in my own brain and decided that I should stop if I really wanted to maintain the “not crazy”� status that I’d decided I fit the bill for previously.

With this decision, I once again returned to my earlier activity of listening to the voices.

“Honestly Ron! Ginny is not a little girl any more. She can kiss whomever she wishes to kiss, and you can’t do anything about it.”�

_Thank you_ , Hermione! I decided that I would definitely bake Hermione a cake when I woke up. Or, at least, I would buy her a cake and say that I baked it, as I didn’t too much fancy burning down my apartment when I’d only bought it two weeks previously.

“But she’s _my_ baby sister!”�

So?

“So?”� said Hermione.

“So…so, she should get … _permission_ to...”� but he was cut off by Luna again.

“Harry? Aren’t you related to Godric Gryffindor?”�

Ok, what did that have to do with the fact that Ron was stepping _entirely_ out-of-bounds of his overprotective-big-brother-contract that he _signed_ the year before? On the _dotted line_ beside the ‘X’ with Merlin as his witness? Hmm? Whatever happened to that, Ron?

Yes, I made him sign a contract. Yes, he was breaking the contract by suggesting that I get _permission_ to kiss boys.

Yes, the contract allowed me to issue punishment as I saw fit at any given time at any given place, so help me Merlin.

Yes, he would soon have bogeys attacking him. Fiercely. Just as soon as I dislodged that damnable bit of apple from the back of my esophagus.

With this thought, I went back to listening to the voices. Harry was answering Luna's question. Which didn't have anything to do with The Contract.

“Erm…I don’t know. Am I?”�

Hermione sighed, “Yes, Harry, you are. Am I the only one who’s read _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Geneaology_?”�

Yes.

“Yes,”� stated Harry and Ron in unison.

Another sigh from Hermione, “Well, according to it, Godric Gryffindor had a Gaelic third cousin named Ealusaid Domhnaill. She, in turn, married Padraig Griogair, also Gaelic and also a cousin of Gryffindor, though he was something like the 7th or 8th twice removed. They had a son named Brian, who had a daughter named Sinead. Sinead Griogair married Alexander Whitmore, an Englishman, and they had a daughter named Katherine, who married a man named Lawrence James Potter. And there have been sons ever since. Ending with Harry, of course. ”� Hermione took a breath, "So yes, you are related to Godric Gryffindor...technically."

If we had been outside, we could've heard the crickets chirping.

And then, "Harry is a product of _incest_?"

Three guesses as to who said that.

Hermione snorted, "Honestly Ron. It could hardly be referred to as incest. They were very distant cousins. Plus, they were removed a couple of times. It really wasn't that uncommon to marry your cousin back then anyhow. Especially with the pure-blood fanatics so many of them were. In fact, I believe there was a case in 1638 in which the Earl of Beckenhamer married his second cousin, who was later burned at the stake for witchcraft. Only, it was her husband who was the wizard. She was a squib, I believe."

…Well. I knew Hermione was smart, but I had no _idea_ she had the mental capacity to spout off something like _that_. I was going to have to bake her a bigger cake. It must take a whole lot of fuel to produce that much brain power.

Silence. Which was once again broken by our dearest Ronald, "I'm marrying a monster," he said, "No one should be that smart. No one. Are you an alien, Hermione?"

Everyone ignored him and Harry spoke up. "Oh," he said. And then, "Well, I'm surprised the _Prophet_ didn't get a hold my distant relation to Gryffindor."

“They did, Harry, but since you refuse to read the _Prophet_ , you wouldn’t know.”�

“Oh,”� Harry said again.

Ron spoke up, "Mind, if you _are_ an alien, I'll still love you. I'll even marry you. But I don't know about meeting your parents. They don't have tentacles or anything right? Can you even apparate to Venus, anyhow?"

Everyone continued to ignore him.

"Well," said Harry, "what was the point of this conversation again?"

"Luna wanted to know if you had any relation to Godric Gryffindor," said Hermione.

"Or maybe you aren't from Venus," continued Ron, "Saturn? You know, after 10 years of friendship, I would think you would have at least told us your home planet. Well, wherever, can you apparate there? Because I don't think the Knight Bus goes to different planets..." Ron sounded contemplative, "You know, I bet we could get some money off of that. We could sue or something. I mean, they say they can go _anywhere_ , but can they go to Saturn? I think not. And what about alien rights, huh? Why hasn't anyone connected the floo network to go to Saturn as well, huh? I mean, it's not like they aren't human...Ok, well they _aren't_ human, but what does that matter? They should still-"

"Ron?" said Harry.

"Yah?"

"Shut up."

"Ok."

Everyone was silent for a while. 

Hellooooo? I'm down here! On the ground.

Unconscious.

With a lamp shade digging into my back.

Do we see a problem with this situation? Because I most definitely see a problem with this situation. A rather large problem, in fact. Glaring problem. Huge. Not in the slightest bit trivial do I see this problem to be.

The silence was broken again. Only this time it was by Luna. “Well, I think we’re all waiting, Harry.”�

Luna’s statement was met with the crickets again and, I imagine, the blank stares of the three friends around her. I know I was giving her a blank stare. Mentally, that is. As I couldn't move. And had a lamp shade digging into my back.

“Well, go on,”� continued Luna.

“Go on and what?”� asked Harry.

“Kiss Ginny.”�

What?

“WHAT?”� was the combined response of Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Well, I suppose Harry isn't technically the definition of a Handsome Prince. But he _is_ handsome, and he _is_ famous, and he _is_ related to Godric Gryffindor, however distantly.”�

"Godric Gryffindor wasn't a king," said Hermione.

Luna probably shrugged, "Close enough," was her response, "So, go on!"

Everyone was silent. Probably staring at her. Again.

Until Hermione broke it with the statement, “Well, we can argue whether or not Harry is a prince some other time when Ginny _isn’t_ lying on the floor suffocating.”�

…I was suffocating?

Merlin’s beard! I was suffocating! Help! Heeeeelllllllllllppppp! I can’t breathe! Oh my gosh, I can't _breathe_! What did these people think they were _doing_ arguing about stupid things when _I_ , their _friend and relative_ , was asphyxiating on the floor with a lamp shade digging into my back?

Apparently, Hermione picked up on my train of thought as well, as she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh Merlin! She’s suffocating! Someone _do_ something!”�

Yes, please, if you could please keep me from dying, that would be nice. I would be eternally grateful.

Hermione’s statement produced a melee of noise.

“Oh, Merlin! Mum’ll _kill_ me if I let her suffocate!”�

Thank you for caring about my _life_ , Ron. Thank you very much. And Mum is _nothing_ compared to what I was going to do to you for your transgession of The Contract...

“Somebody call 911!”�

What in the _hell_ did Harry just say?

“Kiss her, Harry!”�

Well…actually, that suggestion wasn’t so bad. Not that I had feelings for Harry or anything. It was just the best suggestion so far. Right..

“CPR! Who knows CPR?”� yelled Hermione, “Harry, you know it, don’t you?”�

“…Um…well, yes, I suppose,”� said Harry.

“Well then _do it_!”�

“But…”�

“Now!”�

“But, I…”�

“ _Harry James Potter_!”� I mentally flinched. She was morphing into Evil-Nag-from-Hell-Hermione, “You do CPR on Ginny _this instant_ , or I will _personally_ see to it that your Firebolt is 'donated' to the Harry Potter Fanclub for Young Witches Headquarters so that it may grace the top of their shrine to you. And I'll leave you to your own devices to get it back!”�

Oh that was evil, Hermione. Pure evil.

And who the _hell_ was CPR, anyways? And _why_ were they _still_ arguing while I was suffocating? On the floor? With a lamp shade digging into my back?

Harry gasped, “You _wouldn’t_!”�

“Wouldn’t I, though?”�

Harry decided that she would indeed because he mumbled, “Fine,”� and then went silent.

Okay, so where was this CPR person that Harry knew? Why was I still suffocating? Would somebody _please_ get this _bloody_ lamp shade _out_ of my _back_?

My mental tirade was abruptly terminated, however, when I suddenly found myself being _kissed_ by someone.

More specifically, by Mister Harry James Potter.

How did I know it was Mister Harry James Potter?

Well, no one else smelled quite like Harry. Like wood chips and stormy nights.

Ok, well no, that’s not the reason. I have no idea what he smelled like, I was paying more attention to his lips and the fact that they were attached to my own.

Kissing me.

Harry. Kissing me.

I decided that I definitely did not mind having Mister Harry James Potter kiss me. It was definitely not a bad thing. I would definitely like to do it some more. Preferably while I was conscious and could respond appropriately, but I really wasn’t picky.

Not that I had feelings for him or anything. I just didn’t mind kissing him. It wasn't bad at all. In fact, I was rather enjoying myself.

Then he grabbed my nose, and I wondered how in the world I could have been so love struck not to have noticed this during that little stint with him in my fifth year. 

But still, I was pretty sure I had figured out why he was never caught snogging anyone in the infamous broom closets of Hogwarts.

**_A/N: I've never liked this chapter much. Hm._ **

**_Ah well, review, why don't ya?  
_ **


	4. The Truth Behind the Lamp Shade

**_Well, here 'tis! Once again, a few small changes here and there from the original chapters, but other than that, it's the same. This is my least favorite chapter so far, actually, and I've attempted to rectify that situation somewhat._ **

**_It hasn't worked overly well._ **

**_Ah well, that's life. Read and review, poppets!_ **

**_-h_ **

The Truth Behind the Lamp Shade

If the fact that Harry had just grabbed my nose while attempting to kiss me didn’t surprise me, him blowing into my mouth most certainly did.

Really, where did he learn this? I rather thought the boys’ dormitory at Hogwarts was more well-informed on this sort of thing. Even the stalls in the boys’ bathrooms were probably more well-informed on this sort of thing. And besides, he was much better at this in my fifth year. Maybe those years hunting Voldemort addled his brains a bit. I mean, I’m sure it was a highly stressful job, all that evil psycho path hunting and so forth.

Anywho, he blew into my mouth during his attempt at kissing me and waking me from my enchanted, Linklenorg-induced slumber, and it caught me so off guard that I coughed slightly.

And the apple bit moved a bit further up my windpipe.

Salvation! It was moving!

Harry’s mouth departed form mine at the noise, which was really a shame; abysmal kissing techniques or not, I had missed snogging him.

I coughed again, and the apple bit moved to that space in the back of your throat that itches like crazy and causes you to have mad coughing fits when it is touched. I suddenly found myself in the realm of conciousness and sat straight up, partaking in the activity of having a mad coughing fit.

Only to find that Madam Malkin had just bustled over to see what the commotion was about. What a brilliant time for me to wake up, ya?

“What is going on here?”� she screeched, “Ginevra! What is the matter with you? Stop making such a racket.”�

Oh, yes ma’am. Certainly, just as soon as I stop _choking_!

The apple bit got stuck again, and I could no longer cough, let alone make any sound at all. I grabbed my throat in the universal, _completely obvious_ sign that means, “Help me. I’m choking. Please ‘Accio’ the bit of food stuck in my throat so that I can breathe again. Thank you, and have a nice day.”�

Apparently, my audience didn’t know the universal, _completely obvious_ sign that meant “Help me. I’m choking. Please ‘Accio’ the bit of food stuck in my throat so that I can breathe again. Thank you, and have a nice day.”�

They just stared at me with various odd looks on their faces.

Madame Malkin glared at me murderously for making a racket. 

Hermione looked like she was analyzing the situation and trying to find the most logical explanation for my behavior. She needed to hurry it up. Honestly, the girl could help defeat the most evil wizard of all time, but she couldn’t figure out that I was on the verge of asphyxiation. Yeesh.

Ron looked relieved because he probably thought that Mum wasn’t going to kill him now. Which she wasn’t…I, however, most definitely was.

Harry was staring at me wide-eyed, probably amazed that it really was the Linklenorgs after all. Stupid prat.

Luna looked…like the normal Luna. But her expression rarely changed from anything but dreamy, so she doesn’t count.

Finally, Hermione’s face lit up in realization, “She’s choking!”� she exclaimed, smiling as if she had just solved yet another puzzle after sorting through all the facts.

Good job Hermione! Ten points to Gryffindor! You win the House Cake! Yay!

Now go about the business of restoring oxygen to my lungs, if you please.

Her eyes widened and she gasped, “Oh my goodness, she’s choking! Harry, do the Heimlich, quick!”�

Harry stopped staring at me all dazed-and-confused like, and jumped up, hauling me up with him. He wrapped his arms around my stomach, fisting his hands at my navel, and then squeezed me violently.

I can’t say I was expecting it. 

The apple bit shot out of my mouth and stuck right between Madame Malkin’s eyes.

Hm. Can’t say I was expecting that, either. Though you don’t see me complaining about it.

Everyone stared.

Except for Luna, that is. She just said, “I told you it was the Linklenorgs.”�

I ignored her and leaned over to grab my knees, gasping for breath. And then I spotted the lamp shade that had been digging into my back.

How appropriate.

I bent down and picked it up, turning it in my hands and examining it critically from all angles. I rubbed my finger across the metal rod at the bottom to get rid of a smudge. I licked my thumb and held it in front of my face, one eye closed and the other scrutinizing the lamp shade over my thumb. 

This would do nicely.

Yes, this would do very nicely indeed.

I dropped my hand, opened my eye, straightened, brushed my pants off, and then attacked Ron with the lamp shade.

“You blundering, good-for-nothing, dumber-than-a-flobberworm _git_! You think I need _permission_ to kiss boys? Well, I’ll tell you something, Ronald Weasley, I can kiss whomever I please, and _you_ can’t do anything about it! May I remind you that you _signed_ that contract? Furthermore, I don’t-“

My tirade was cut off by quite a few noises at once.

“A _contract_?”� went Harry, “You made him sign a _contract_?”� And then he burst out laughing.

“Ginny no! Stop it, Ginny! You’re going to ruin the wedding photos!”� went Hermione.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”� went a screech.

I dropped the lamp shade and covered my ears. I knew Ron screamed like a girl, but this really was pushing it. I was going to have to give him screaming sessions. He could join Harry for his kissing lessons. It would save time.

The screeching finally stopped and everyone uncovered their ears to look for the emitter of the noise.

Which turned out to be Madam Malkin, not Ron.

Pity, that. Would have been superb blackmail material.

She looked royally pissed off. Her face was red, borderline purple actually, hair was falling out of her usually immaculate bun, and she was breathing extremely strenuously. Like maybe she had just had a run-in with a certain three-headed dog living on the third floor corridor of Hogwarts. 

She was also pointing a shaking finger at me.

Probably not a good sign, that.

I decided that maybe I should high-tail it out of there, ridiculous outfit or not.

“Right well, it was nice seeing you all, but…”� I made a production of looking at my non-existent watch, “I really must be going to a further engagement…”� I turned on my heel and started for the door.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”� Madam Malkin screeched.

And really, I wouldn’t have stopped except for the fact that she sent a tripping hex at me and I crashed headfirst back into the pile of lamp shades.

Stupid things, they were _really_ starting to annoy me.

And what a mean, mean old lady. Who knew she hid such trickiness beneath that innocent, grandmotherly appearance?

She stomped over to me and hauled me bodily back over to my pedestal. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were staring at us, wide-eyed.

Don’t just stand there, you idiots! _Do_ something! I mean really, she was _forcing_ me _against_ my will, _kidnapping_ me, you could say. She was _abusing_ my right of free mobility, and they were just _staring at me_?

Hermione was _not_ getting that cake anymore. No sirree.

Madam Malkin yanked me onto the pedestal and applied a sticking charm to my feet, rendering me immobile.

I was furious, “Excuse me, _madam_ , but there's a bit of apple on your face. Just there..." I pointed to my forehead, "And I will have you know that I do not appreciate you-“

“Silencio,”� she said, jabbing her wand at me.

Ohhhhh, that woman was _never_ getting a cake from _me_. Ever! She had just lost all her cake privileges.

She glared at me, “Miss Weasley,”� she said in a deadly whisper.

I glared at her in response.

“Miss Weasley,”� she repeated in the same whisper, “you have just destroyed my last nerve. You will be _staying here,_ not making _any disruptions_ , and _not_ eating your hat, until I say otherwise. Is that clear?”� She turned on her heal and walked away, depriving me of the chance to retort.

Not that I could have considering she’d Silencio’d me. Evil hag…

It was with grim satisfaction that I realized she still had apple bit stuck right between her eyes.

I grinned and took a defiant bite out of the apple still in my hand just to spite her. Take that, you evil woman!

Of course, she didn’t _see_ me defiantly bite the apple, but still…

I chewed on my apple furiously and then took another bite, glaring around at the shocked people in the store. They all busied themselves with their apparel rather than face my Evil Death Stare. I cackled at them in my head.

The silence was finally broken by Hermione, “Well…that was…interesting. I’m glad you’re, um, okay.”�

I stared at her blandly, and then looked at Ron.

I needed to vent my anger, and I still hadn’t finished with him. I hated to waste perfectly good nutritional produce but…

“Ow!”� he yelled, as he grabbed his forehead where I had nailed him with the half eaten apple.

Harry snorted with laughter and Hermione covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. I smiled smugly and folded my arms across my chest.

“Take that you overbearing prat,”� I said. Except I didn’t say it because I was still Silencio’d. I just mouthed it silently. Probably I looked like a goldfish.

I looked at Hermione pointedly, “What?”� she said.

I rolled my eyes and gestured to my throat. Her eyes widened.

“You’re choking again!”�

I threw my hands up in exasperation. Dear Merlin, sometimes that girl drove me up the wall.

Harry rolled his eyes at her and pointed his wand at me, “Finite Incantanto,”� he said.

Finally!

“Finally!”� I exclaimed, “Thank you, Harry. You seem to be the only one with any sense in this group of people. You may have your cake privileges back.”�

“Erm…thanks?”� he said.

“You’re welcome.”� I nodded at him, “However, Ron and Hermione no longer have their cake privileges, and they will not be gaining them back until they apologize for not coming to my aid when I was in dire need.”�

Hermione rolled her eyes at me. “I’m sorry,”� she said.

“For?”� I raised an eyebrow at her.

She rolled her eyes again, “For not coming to your aid.”� 

“When?”�

Again with the eye-roling, “When you were in need.”�

I tapped my foot impatiently, “What _kind_ of need, Hermione?”�

Once more with the eye-roling, “ _Dire_ need, Ginny.”�

I contemplated her for a moment, “Very well. You may have your cake privileges back.”�

She rolled her eyes. She needed to stop that, they were going to get stuck like that. And then her wedding photos would be absolutely abysmal. Ron bruised, Hermione cross-eyed, The-Man-Who-Subjugated in a loincloth (we’ll ignore the fact he wouldn’t be wearing one at Hermione’s wedding for the sake of imagination)…the _Daily Prophet_ would pay good money for those photos.

I turned to Ron and looked at him expectantly.

He rubbed his forehead and glared, “If you think for a second I’m going to apologize, you’ve got another think coming. Besides, _you_ should be apologizing to _me_! And you’re rubbish in the kitchen, anyways. I don’t want any cake made by _you_ , of all people.”�

I glared at him and opened my mouth to retort, but then Harry moved and I got distracted. He was still wearing a loincloth.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

We both stared at each other.

“Harry?”� I asked.

“Yah?”� he said.

“Why are you wearing a loincloth?”�

Silence.

Then, “HAHAHAHA! _Harry!_ You’re wearing a _loincloth_!”�

Yes, Ron. We’ve established that.

Harry blushed, “It’s for the wedding.”�

Ron choked and immediately stopped laughing, his face blanching, “ _My_ wedding? Oh no way, Hermione. This is just going too far!”�

I smacked him with the lamp shade again, “Luna’s wedding you dimwit,”� I turned to Harry, “You have my deepest sympathies.”�

Harry grunted, “Ya, thanks. You have mine as well.”�

Except I didn’t hear that last part, I was too busy staring at his abdominal muscles. They had flexed when he grunted.

I can tell you something, ladies and gents, subjugating an evil psycho path with a demented sense of loyalty and subsequently liberating an entire world full of magical people certainly tones the body something wonderful.

So yes, while I was drooling over Harry’s abs, Madam Malkin snuck up behind me and attacked me with a measuring tape.

“What? Stop! Why are you measuring me? I don’t like being measured,”� I swatted at her hands.

“Sit still, Ginevra, or I’ll put a full body bind on you. And I’m measuring you for your corset.”�

My _what?_

“My _what_?”� I said.

“Her _what_?”� said Ron and Harry.

“Her corset,”� said Hermione and Madam Malkin.

Ron and Harry stared at them with their mouths agape. I just stood on my pedestal.

“My _what_?”� I repeated.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, “Your _corset,_ Ginny! You know, the things that people used to wear in order to create a more appealing shape to their bodies.”�

I stared at her.

“You don’t think I have an appealing body shape? How _rude_!”� I turned my back on her.

Except I really just twisted my upper body away from her as my feet were still glued to the pedestal.

It had the same effect, though.

“Your body shape is perfectly fine, Ginny,”� she said.

I didn't say anything.

Hermione sighed. Again.

"Harry thinks you have a nice body shape too. Don't you, Harry?"

I was in shock. I could _not_ believe she had just said that. It was like trying to believe that Ron had suddenly decided to become a vegetarian. It was like believing that Luna had turned normal. It was like believing that I was not, in fact, wearing a highly unnatural amount of fruit.

Completely unbelievable.

I turned back to face her, " _What_?"

Both Harry and I had said it at the same time.

Excuse me, Mr. Potter? What exactly are you insinuating here?

I turned to him, "Oh, so you think I _don't_ have a nice body shape? Is that it?"

Harry stammered, "No...I, no...that's not...not what I meant. I just meant..." He trailed off.

"Meant _what_ , exactly, Mr. Potter? That I'm _fat_?"

He blanched and his eyes widened. Oh this was too much fun...

"What? No! No no no! That's not what I'm saying. I think you have an excellent body shape, Ginny!"

I eyed him skeptically, just to see him squirm.

He nodded his head vigorously.

"See?" Hermione said, "Your body shape is perfectly fine."

I rounded on her, "Well then _why_ do I have to wear this 16th century torture device, otherwise known as a corset?"

I resumed trying to fend off Madam Malkin. In my momentary distraction, she had managed to get measurements for my waist and hips. She was now working on my coconuts.

Hermione sighed again, “Because it’s appropriate for the 16th century Muggle style theme of my wedding.”�

What the hell?

“16th century Mug-… _why_ , Hermione?”�

She stuck her nose in the air, “Because I find that particular era quite fascinating. Especially their style of dress. The panniers in particular are quite my favorite, they’re history is just so enchanting!”�

I repeat, what the hell?

Ron looked at Hermione, “The whatsits? Whatever a pannerman is, I’m not wearing one.”�

“Pannier, Ronald. And Ginny has to wear one, not you.”�

Me?

“ _Me_?”� I said, "I'm already wearing a corset, what more do you want from me? And what the hell is a pannerman?"

"A pannier. And it is a type of hoop skirt that makes your hips appear wider."

What? Why on earth would someone want to do that?

" _Why_?" I repeated.

Madam Malkin interjected, “Because, Ginevra. Now put it on.”�

And she reached down, plucked up the lamp shade with which I had attacked Ron, and shoved it into my hands.

Oh, bloody stinking hell.

**_Button's just down there...*points*  
_ **


	5. Enter the Cheese Wheels

**_Read and Review, loo-hoos!_ **

Enter the Cheese Wheels

I was going to kill Hermione.

Quickly, inconspicuously, and with a minimum of pain and suffering.

But the lack of pain and suffering bit was only out of consideration for Ron. I didn’t think he would find anyone else nutters enough to marry him.

And Hermione was most definitely nutters.

A corset, I ask you.

A _corset_.

The abomination was at that moment cinched around my torso so tightly that I was almost positive I would pop any minute and splatter the swaths of silk, velvet, and lace around me with brains and last night’s potato salad. Which, by the way, had gone straight to my thighs.

My situation was made even more disagreeable by the fact that I was attempting to _crouch_ in The Corset.

Corsets don’t like to be crouched in. In fact, they rather hate it.

And they’re not afraid to tell you about it.

But I had no choice. They had pushed me too far. I was _not_ going down without a fight.

Which was why I was currently crouching in The Corset, undergoing A Lot of Pain, behind The Inflated Stack of Bras.

Armed with my Edible Hat.

“Don’t come any closer,”� I yelled, brandishing a pineapple at Hermione and Madam Malkin threateningly, “I’m a desperate woman. No telling what I might do while in this state.”�

Hermione and Madam Malkin were glaring at me, both of them standing well back from my bunker after I had launched a legion of Highly Combustible Kiwi Bombs at them when they had attempted to approach and force me back to the Pedestal of Shame in order to be adorned with the Lamp Shade from Hell.

Hermione shook a finger at me, “Get out from behind there this instant, Ginny Weasley! You’re acting like a two-year-old!”�

I gave her an indignant snort, “I most certainly am not!”� I exclaimed, “As far as I know, two-year-olds aren’t in the habit of wearing corsets! Or pannermans!”�

Madam Malkin shook the pannerman still in her hand at me, “Pannier! It’s a pannier, Miss Weasley!”�

I poked my tongue out at her like a two-year-old, “I’ll call it a pannerman if I so please. And either way it’s still ridiculous. Why would anyone want hips that big?”�

Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation, “I am not going to argue with you right now. You’re being irrational.”�

She turned on her heel and stomped towards the changing rooms.

My mouth fell open indignantly, “ _I’m_ being irrational? _Me_? Hermione, I am not the one making people wear 16th century Muggle torture devices and gargantuan _lamp shades_ to my wedding!”�

Hermione just huffed and disappeared into a fitting room, slamming the door behind her.

I glared after her and then turned my attention back to Madam Malkin.

“I’m not wearing it,”� I told her.

“You are,”� she said, and glared at me.

“I’m not,”� I said, and glared back.

We glared at each other some more, her brandishing the lamp shade and me brandishing the pineapple.

It was an even draw, and we knew it.

“Fine,”� Madam Malkin said, “I’m going to tend to my other customers and ignore your silly antics. But you will not leave this store until you put on the rest of your ensemble.”�

I snorted, “Like you can make me.”�

She set the pannerman down and brushed imaginary dirt off her linen sleeves, “I happen to have confiscated your clothes. You can leave if you want, but if I were you, I wouldn’t too much fancy going out in public like that.”� She eyed the corset smugly and turned on her heel.

I gaped at her, “Why you evil little…lady,”� I glared at her retreating back, “What did I ever do to her?”�

“I believe you threw a kiwi at her once,”� said a voice to my right.

I faced Harry and waved my hand impatiently, “That’s beside the point,”� I said.

He raised an eyebrow, “Is it? How so?”� he asked.

“She gave me the kiwi. It’s her fault it was in my possession. It is therefore her fault it was thus used as a weapon. So, it doesn’t count.”�

Harry laughed, once again causing his abs to flex.

I drooled.

Figuratively, of course.

Harry looked at me curiously, “You alright?”� he asked.

“I’m wearing a corset,”� I replied.

And you’re _not_ wearing anything. Except the loin cloth and headdress, of course.

But that’s beside the point.

His eyes strayed to my chest and he flushed, “Right.”�

Awkward silence, I do so hate it.

I began rearranging the bras around me to better defend myself, crouching down even lower in The Corset, undergoing Even More Pain, and creating better angles for the launching of the Fruit Bombs. All in the name of defiance.

I never claimed to be rational.

Harry watched, “Don’t you think you should just come out of there and try on the outfit?”� he asked, “I mean, it seems a whole lot simpler than barricading yourself in the corner with inflatable bras.”�

I looked at him indignantly, “And admit defeat? I think not. I wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.”�

Harry observed my bunker, “Yes well, Gryffindors usually developed more…workable plans than-“ he gestured to the bras.

I decided to play the offended card again, “Are you calling me stupid, Harry? Is that what you’re doing?”�

He looked up in alarm, “What? No! No, I…”� I glared at him, “of course I wasn’t…you took it…”� he searched wildly for something to say, “Are you hungry?”� he asked.

My stomach growled in answer, and I decided to let his earlier offense slide if he was in possession of food.

“Right. Well there are some cheese wheels over on the table over there. Compliments of Madam Malkin for the fittings, apparently. I could get-“ I was already on my feet and wading through the bras.

“There was food here this whole time?”� I demanded as I picked my way past a bright orange pair of panties.

Harry nodded.

I stepped over a lime green bra and grabbed his arm, “Take me there.”�

He stared at my hand on his arm for a second and then looked back at me.

“What about the trench warfare?”�

I looked at my ruined dugout, “No matter,”� I said, holding up my pineapple, “I’ve still got the Mama Bomb.”�

Harry chuckled and started towards the back corner of the store with me clinging to his arm.

His very _warm_ arm, now I thought about it.

His very _muscular_ arm.

His very-

My mental gush was interrupted by the crashing open of a fitting room door.

“Madam Malkin!”� Hermione yelled, “Bring the pannier!”� And she started towards us from the opposite end of the store.

Harry and I stopped in our tracks and looked back in horror.

They were coming at us full steam ahead, brandishing the pannier, livid looks on their faces. They most obviously meant business.

But, then again, so did I.

I raised the pineapple in my right hand, “Quick, Harry!”� I yelled, “Grab the cheese wheels and run!”�

Harry didn’t move.

“Go, man! I’ll hold them off!”� I yelled, “Save yourself! I’ll be right behind you!”�

He looked at me incredulously, “I’m not going outdoors in _this_!”� he gestured towards his apparel, “It’s _freezing_ outside! Plus, I’m half naked.”�

Oh, I knew that alright, dear Harrykins. Boy, did I know that.

I watched as the two Harpies grew ever closer.

“Okay then…run back to the bunker!”�

“It’s destroyed.”�

“ _Fix it_.”�

“Since when am I involved in this?”�

“Since _now_! Now go before I fix this pineapple onto your head!”�

I turned towards him with the pineapple. His eyes widened and he turned to grab the cheese wheels.

I turned back around, reared my arm back, launched the pineapple at Hermione and Madam Malkin, ran towards the underwear pile, dove into the middle of them...and landed on a half-naked Harry bearing food.

So fantasies really _do_ come true.

“Oof,”� we both said.

“Food,”� I said.

“Check your hair,”� he said.

I reached to my head and extracted a miniature cheese wheel.

“Oh well,”� I popped it into my mouth and chewed blissfully, “Where’f ve west?”�

“Squashing into my back, I think.”�

I swallowed hurriedly.

“You’re _squashing_ it?”� I exclaimed, crawling off of him and pushing him up.

“Well, you’re the one who landed on top of me. It’s not like I could help it.”� He winced and rubbed his chest where I had landed on him.

I gazed at the squashed cheese on the floor in despair.

“My food!”� I moaned.

“My back!”� he moaned.

“My _wedding apparel_ ,”� Hermione…exclaimed viciously.

Harry and I looked up at her voice. Madam Malkin and Hermione loomed above us brandishing the pannier, triumphant looks on their faces.

The Bras had failed us.

The gig was up.

“I would like to make one last request before I die,”� I declared.

They both rolled their eyes.

“Bury me with food,”� I said, “Lots of it.”�

**_A/N: Not my favorite chapter. Kinda short. Next one's better. Promise._ **

**_I’m hungry. And tired. Explanation for the short sentences._ **

**_Lemon pie would be nice right about now._ **

**_Has anyone seen my green fuzzy socks? They’ve gone missing…_ **

**_Click the button…go on, I dare ya…_ **


	6. And Then there was Guano

**_A/N: Yay for updating! Much disclaiming and all that jazz…_ **

**_-h_ **

  
_For all the Old Ladies out there_

_Who get no respect from the young whippersnappers_

_And, in consequence, are forced to carry bricks in their purses._

Chocolate, Avocados, a Cucumber, and Guano

I wasn’t aware so much velvet could be accumulated around a single being in such a limited amount of space.

“It’s taking over the world,”� I proclaimed, staring at the mirror as I spoke and looking despairingly at the wide expanse of my fake hips and how they were poking Harry in the face every time I shifted slightly, “We’re all going to be suffocated. Look at poor Harry, it’s already started on him.”�

I gestured to Harry in the mirror and looked at him pityingly. His lips twitched slightly as he lifted a hand up to push my hip away from his nose.

I poked him again.

He narrowed his eyes and brandished his cuff links at me, though the effect was hindered slightly by the fact that half his face was smushed into a pannerman covered in green velvet. I smirked and turned to face Madam Malkin, effectively knocking Harry into the wall.

I was angry with him. He had squashed my cheese.

Plus he got to wear a normal Muggle tuxedo (which he looked absolutely divine in, I must say. As a friend. Just observing, you know.) instead of oodles upon oodles of lace and velvet.

“Can I leave now?”� I asked, employing the help of my puppy dog eyes in my campaign for freedom.

Madam Malkin lifted her face to glare at me and I recoiled in horror, whacking Harry in the face so hard that he was knocked straight to the floor.

“Sweet Merlin!”� I exclaimed, ignoring Harry’s moaning and leaning as far away from Madam Malkin as I could. She had at least a hundred pins poking out of her mouth, and I couldn’t help but think she looked somewhat like a mutant piranha escaped from the Amazon to come get me.

She glared at me some more and said, “Mff Phil,”� which in piranha language means “sit still.”�

I watched her warily as she turned back to my dress and began rapidly applying pins to the hem and around the giant swaths of fabric covering the pannerman.

Madam Malkin in possession of sharp objects made me nervous.

Harry groaned and stood up from the floor holding his broken glasses with one hand.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?”� He looked at me and shot an accusatory glance at my pannerman, tapping his glasses with his wand in an unconsciously practiced motion and muttering a spell under his breath.

I smirked at him and watched as he pushed his repaired glasses onto the bridge of his nose and walked off presumably to find Ron, grumbling under his breath.

Madam Malkin took the last pins from her mouth and straightened up, circling me like a vulture.

“Miss Granger!”� she called.

Hermione peeked her head out from behind Ron, whom she was attempting to teach how to tie his tie and looked at us. She nodded once and gave Ron’s tie to Harry, briskly ordering him to teach Ron how to tie it. Harry looked at the tie blankly and stared after her retreating back helplessly as she made her way towards us.

I stuck my tongue out at him and poked my thumbs in my ears, wiggling my fingers around. He rolled his eyes, turning back to Ron.

Hermione reached us, and she and Madam Malkin began to circle me again, discussing the intricacies of the dress.

I drowned in boredom and wondered what it was like to have normal friends.

They finally stopped scrutinizing me and stood in front of my pedestal, looking at me expectantly.

I stared at them blankly.

“What?”�

Madam Malkin sighed and Hermione glared.

“We asked,”� Hermione said, “whether or not you agreed.”�

…Agreed?

I decided I probably shouldn’t ask that if I wanted to continue to have a companionable relationship with my head. I was never too keen on the whole “long distance relationship”� thing, and I didn’t think my head and I would handle separation very well.

So I lied.

“Um…yes.”�

Hermione’s eyes sparked almost triumphantly and she turned to Madam Malkin briskly, “That settles it then. How long do you think it will take to sew another layer of lace for the collar?”�

I gaped.

Madam Malkin turned to her with the same glint in her eye, “Well, I’m really quite busy at the moment so it would probably be at least another hour.”�

I choked.

Madam Malkin looked up at me innocently, “Are you alright, dear?”�

I straightened and looked at her, “Fine. I’m fine. Um…I’ve actually changed my mind. I think the collar is just fine as it is,”� I said matter-of-factly.

Hermione looked at me, “Do you really?”�

“Yes.”� I nodded emphatically.

She rolled her eyes and waved a hand at me dismissively, “Fine,”� she said, “You can leave,”� I jumped up and did a little jig towards the fitting rooms, “But only if you go to the grocery for me and pick up a few things.”�

“Fine,”� I said distractedly, not particularly caring what she wanted me to do as long as I got out of the hippo-hips. I continued to dance towards my oh-so-sacred normal clothes.

“The Muggle grocery,”� she said.

I stopped. My shoulders sagged. I let my head loll back and grimaced up at the ceiling.

“Hermioneeeeee,”� I whined, stomping my feet and turning to face her, “I _hate_ the Muggle grocery!”�

And I did. Ever since that time the old lady had run over me with her shopping cart when we were fighting over the last box of Wheaties. I would’ve gotten them if she hadn’t had the brick in her purse.

Cheater.

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “Fine,”� she said, “But I’m still not sure that I don’t want just a _touch_ more lace on your collar.”�

I stared at her. Evil little…

“Oh, alright.”�

She smiled happily and bounced up on her toes, clapping twice, “Well then I need five avocados, a cucumber, three bars of chocolate, and some guano.”�

That was a rather eclectic combination, I must say.

“And why can’t I get all that at the normal grocery?”�

“Because it’s magically enhanced at the magical grocery.”�

“Enhanced being the key word.”�

Hermione glared again, “It’s not the same. Just do it.”�

I sighed, “Fine,”� I held up my hand and began ticking off fingers, “five avocados, a cucumber, three bars of chocolate, and…what was the last one?”�

“Guano.”�

I furrowed my brow, whatever the hell a guano was, “Right. Guano. How many of those?”�

Hermione turned and began walking away, “Oh, just however much you think is enough.”�

Enough? Enough for what?

I decided I didn’t care enough to ask and went into my fitting room to change instead.

I changed quickly, throwing the velvet monstrosity in the corner and shoving the corset under the bench against the wall since I didn’t have a dragon to feed it to, and I couldn’t think of any other way that it would maybe never be found again.

I wrapped my scarf around my neck and pulled on my coat as I ran towards the door before anyone could stop me and tell me they needed me to try on a chain mail bra and a Viking hat with horns.

Because it really wouldn’t surprise me.

I reached the door and was just about to push out of it and make my way to food when I ran smack into someone who wasn’t there and fell back into my pile of Inflatable Underwear.

I snatched a triple-D sized bra away from my face and leapt up, flailing my arms about in front of me in order to smack the invisible person.

“Ow!”� he yelled as I made contact.

I smacked him again.

“You had your invisibility cloak this whole time and you didn’t tell me? You _imbecile_!”� I screeched, “I could’ve-“

I suddenly found myself flush against Harry under his cloak, his hand over my mouth.

I ignored the army of raging doxies in my stomach and glared up at him.

“Shh!”� he said, “I’m trying to escape.”�

I jerked my head away from his hand, “I’ve been trying to _escape_ for the past _four hours!_ ”� I hissed, “And now I find out you’ve had your invisibility cloak this _whole time_! You _imbecile!_ ”�

Harry clapped a hand over my mouth again and pulled me behind a mannequin.

I growled.

“Okay, I’m sorry. But I’ve got a plan now so it’s okay.”�

I bit his hand.

“Ow!”� he yelled, jerking it away and looking at me incredulously.

I glared at him, “I didn’t _need_ a plan. I was almost out the door before you came in and _once again_ thwarted my mission to get food!”�

“What do you mean ‘once again?’ I showed you the cheese wheels in the first place!”�

“Ya. And then you squashed them.”� I folded my arms as best I could under in the limited amount of space available to me and continued to glare at him menacingly.

Harry rolled his eyes and looked behind me towards the door, “Okay, whatever. That doesn’t matter,”� I was about to tell him that I felt high disagreement towards that statement and I rather thought he should take it back if he wanted to maintain his status as a member of the male species, but he continued speaking before I got the chance, “Here’s what we do. On the count of three you run to the door, open it long enough for me to get out, and then we make a break for it.”�

He was still looking behind me at the door, and I was still glaring up at him.

“Okay. One…Two…Thr-“

I stomped on his foot and then stalked towards the door. I could hear him scrambling after me.

I opened the door, held it there long enough for him to get halfway through, and then let go.

He grunted as it made contact, and the door bounced back against thin air, it’s bell tinkling something fierce.

Footsteps approached me in the snow and Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak as the door finally managed to shut.

He straightened his glasses, stuffed his cloak in his jacket and then glared at me, rubbing his side, “Thanks a lot,”� he said.

“You’re very welcome,”� I said.

He rolled his eyes and started to walk down the street. I followed him.

“So how do we get there?”� I asked.

He looked at me, confused, “How do we get where?”�

“The Muggle grocery.”�

He glanced at me again, “Why would we need to go to the Muggle grocery?”�

“Because Hermione told me to go there and get her some stuff.”�

“So?”�

“So, you have to come with me.”�

He scoffed, “You just bit my hand, stomped on my foot, and slammed a door on me, and you expect me to be nice and escort you to the Muggle grocery?”�

I looked at him innocently, “Yes.”�

He raised his eyebrows at me.

I sighed, “I didn’t want to have to resort to blackmail, but…”� I trailed off threateningly.

Harry kept his eyebrows raised, “You don’t have any blackmail material on me.”�

I raised my eyebrows back at him, “Oh, but I do.”�

“And what’s that?”�

“Well excluding the fact that I can call up any newspaper around and tell them your secret lovers with Romilda Vane, I can also go back into Robes for All Occassions and sound the alarm that you’ve escaped.”�

Harry gaped at me and I casually examined the snowflakes caught on the fuzz of my tattered old Gryffindor scarf.

“You wouldn’t,”� he said.

I looked up from my scarf, “Wouldn’t I, though?”�

Harry looked at me, “Fine. I don’t think you really would, but I’ll take you anyways.”�

I smiled at him and linked my arm through his, “You’re so sweet, Harry.”�

He snorted and rolled his eyes again, turning to step into the Leaky Cauldron.

“What does she need from the grocery anyways?”�

I looked up as I thought, “Ummm…five avocados, three bars of chocolate, a cucumber, and a guano. Whatever the hell that is.”�

Harry stopped suddenly and began choking. I smacked him on the back.

“Are you alright?”�

He straightened up, eyes watering, “Ya…ya, I’m fine. What was that last one she needs again?”�

I looked at him concernedly, his cheeks were flushed, “Guano. Are sure you’re alright? Are you sick or something?”� I put the back of my hand against his forehead to check his temperature, frowning at him concernedly.

“Ya, I’m fine. Just something…”� his lips twitched, “something stuck in my throat.”� He raised his eyebrows and looked up towards my hand.

I jerked it away, horrified. “Oh Merlin, It’s finally happened. I’ve become my mother.”� I said, wiping my hand off as if I could stop the transformation in that way.

Harry chuckled and grabbed my hand to lead me into the Leaky Cauldron.

And I was left in a daze the rest of the way to the grocery as I contemplated my hand and how it was engulfed by Harry’s.

Even though I didn’t like him like that. At all. Purely platonic, we were. Purely.

I was having a harder fact convincing myself of this as we stepped into a brightly lit store with a white linoleum floor.

Harry dropped my hand and looked around and I snapped out of my daze.

“Okay,”� I said pointing to either end of the store, “You go that way, I’ll go this way. Meet back in the middle.”� Harry nodded and started off. I walked in the other direction, attempting to restrain myself from launching onto the produce section and eating my heart out.

I found the avocados almost immediately and stuffed five into one of those annoying plastic baggies that take ten minutes of manipulating to open before starting in search of the chocolate, cucumber, and guano.

Which I still didn’t know what it was.

I searched my side of the store and upon finding none of my queries, went to find Harry.

He was standing by the beef section holding a cucumber and three chocolate bars in his hands. I handed him the bag of avocados.

“No luck with the guano then?”� I asked, looking up at him. His lips twitched again, and I narrowed my eyes.

“Why do you keep doing that?”� I asked.

“Keep doing what?”� His lips twitched.

“The lip-twitching thing. Why do you keep doing it?”�

He looked at me innocently, “What lip twitching thing?”�

I kept my eyes narrowed at him and sighed, “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go find a Muggle and ask them about guanos.”�

Harry’s lips twitched.

“You did it again!”� I accused.

He held his hands up, “I’m not doing anything.”�

I made an annoyed sound at the back of my throat and started off towards the cashiers desks. Harry followed behind me, his lips twitching.

We made it to the endless line of check-out lines, and got in one of the three that were actually open behind an old lady who was digging through her purse.

She looked vaguely familiar.

I reached for the divider to put between our two orders on that strange moving table top just as she did the same. Our hands closed over it at the same time.

“Oh no, I’ll get it,”� I said, looking up at the lady and then freezing.

It was the Wheatie Stealer. In person. Standing in front of me. Smelling like an old person.

Oh what rage…

“YOU!”� we said at the same time, glaring at each other and hanging on to either end of the plastic divider.

“You stole my Wheaties,”� I said.

“I got there first,”� she said.

“No, I did,”� I said.

“I did!”� she said.

“Next please,”� Cash Register Girl said.

“I’m missing something”� Harry said.

I tugged on the divider, “I’ve got it, thanks,”� I told the Wheatie Stealer.

She tugged back, “No no. I’ve got it.”�

I tugged harder, “No, I insist,”� I gritted out.

She tugged back, “No, _I_ insist.”�

We glared at each other.

“ _Next_ please.”�

We glared at the Cash Register Girl. I decided I’d piss the Wheatie Stealer off some more by stealing her turn in line.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any guano in this store, would you?”� I asked CRG.

CRG’s eyes widened, “ _Bat shit_?”�

I let go of the divider in shock just as the Wheatie Stealer gave an almighty tug on it. She fell backward into the rack of various types of candies, causing it to tip over and her to fall back with it, her legs flying up and the skirt of her dress falling over her head and exposing a lacy pair of pantaloons. Her wig soared off and landed on the hamburger a man at the little restaurant in the corner of the grocery was attempting to eat.

Everyone gasped.

I hid the divider behind my back.

Harry dropped the avocados and turned purple.

The man in the corner removed the wig and continued to eat.

The old lady sputtered incoherently and scrambled to get up, looking livid.

The CRG looked at me, “You’d best run,”� she said.

I was just about to take her advice when the Wheatie Stealer scrambled to her feet, grabbed her purse from the ground, and swung it as hard as she could at my head.

The last thing I saw before I crashed into the candy rack and blacked out was Harry holding a cucumber and laughing his sexy little head off.

The prat.

**_A/N: Good? Bad? Horrendous?_ **

**__**

**_Let me know!_ **


	7. I Come in Peace, Bearing Shit

_**Well, here 'tis! This is the last chapter that I have completely written so far. I'm working on the eighth, but considering the fact that I have exams and my cousin is getting married, it'll probably be a week or two before it's posted.** _

_**Life. It just won't leave us bloody well alone, will it?** _

_**Read and review, loo-hoos!** _

_**-h** _

  
_For the Evil Dentist from Hell_  
Who insisted the thing on my gum was not normal   
That it was, in fact, abnormal   
And subsequently required the process of removal.   
_I hate you, sir. I hate you so very much._   


I Come in Peace, Bearing Shit

There was that stupid cucumber again. Waving in front of my face. It was talking to me this time as well, something about okra and an affair. I could only imagine the complexities of the residents of the produce section’s love life, and my highly concussed brain could not process the information that perhaps it wasn’t actually the cucumber that was speaking to me. I closed my eyes and swiped at the cucumber feebly, moaning.

“Look mister, I have a headache,”� I muttered, opening my eyes again to see that more of the cucumber’s comrades had come seeking my advice, hovering in front of my face, “I can’t be bothered with your torrid affairs at the moment unless they have something to do with a bottle of Miss Whirlybang’s Headache Solution. Then maybe I’ll talk. So go away, the lot of you.”� I swiped at one of the cucumbers again, my hand traveling through thin air where the food was supposed to be hovering and instead smacking against something hard and hairy.

_What an odd feeling cucumber_ , I thought.

The hairy cucumber jerked and let out a small exclamation, and I let my hand fall back to my side, closing my eyes against the throbbing pain in my head. I moaned again.

The cucumber above me spoke, “Ginny? Ginny? Are you Okra? Affair. Lee big percussion, I think. Can you hair me?”�

I scrunched my eyes in confusion and irritation, bringing a hand up to press against my forehead. Who was this Okra person anyhow? What an unfortunate name. Though I supposed the cucumber could be having an affair with the okra; that would be scandalous. The okra was from the wrong side of the aisle, if you know what I mean. I doubted Mr. Cucmber’s family would be happy about that one. And if I was interpreting his statement correctly, he seemed to be trying to woo her with a serenade involving the percussion instruments. Plus he had some sort of disease which made him grow hair, which I suppose was not very attractive on a cucumber. Poor guy, I thought he did have a bit of a predicament.

Don't look at me like that. I was deranged at the time. It's what my brain came up with.

But I still didn’t want to help him. I really did have a roaring headache.

“No, I’m not okra. And you’re not making any sense,”� I told the annoying cucumber, “Now leave me alone. Go talk to your tomatoes-in-law about it.”�

“Tomat- Ginny, you aren’t making any sense. Are you okay?”� I felt someone pat lightly on the side of my face, “Ginny? Wake up, Gin. I think you have a fairly big concussion. Can you hear me?”�

I blinked my eyes a few times then, squinting them to discern the blurry shape that had taken place of the cucumbers hovering above me.

“Harry?”� I asked, leaning my head forward a bit from where, I realized, it was lying on the pavement outside the Muggle grocery. I shielded my eyes from the glare of a street light and peered up at Harry, glancing around him for the cucumbers. They seemed to have disappeared aside from the one gripped in Harry’s hand. I looked at Harry confusedly. He was rubbing the side of his head and looking at me amusedly through crooked glasses.

“I'll take from the slap to the head that you’re awake, then,”� he said, straightening his glasses and glancing at me fleetingly before turning away, his lips twitching slightly.

“Ya,”� I muttered, sitting up slowly and looking around, “Where’d the cucumbers go?”�

Harry frowned at me and held up the green fruit (or is it a vegetable? Neither? Oh, I don’t know, I was never one for Herbology.) in his hand, “This one?”� he asked.

I shook my head slightly and then winced, holding it in place after my brain had sloshed around a bit, “No, the ones that wanted to have the affair with the okra.”�

Now that I was conscious, I realized that sounded more than a little insane.

Harry’s eyebrows rose at this and he reached out to feel my forehead concernedly, “I think you have a concussion, Gin. You’re a little confused.”�

I started to argue with him, when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to see the Wheatie Stealer hobble slowly over to her car with a bag boy following closely behind her with her purchases. She opened the trunk for him, gave him some sort of Muggle coing, and then got in the car. She turned on the engine and then glared at me, shooting up her middle finger with a vengeance as she squealed off, skidding her tires on the pavement.

The bag boy watched in amazement for a bit before glancing at his coin, wrinkling his nose, and shoving it in his pocket irritably.

I should have guessed she'd be a cheap tipper.

I gaped at the tail lights of her car, watching as they zoomed down the road and disappeared around a corner, leaving a snowy street bathed in artificial light behind them.

“Did the Wheatie Stealer just flick me off?”� I asked Harry, still staring at the spot where her car had disappeared.

Harry held back a laugh and looked at me oddly, “Wheatie Stealer?”� he asked.

I didn’t take my eyes off the corner, “Ya. She stole the last box of Wheaties last time I was here. Smacked me with her purse that time too, the cheater.”�

Harry made somewhat of a strangled noise and then cleared his throat, “Ah, yes. Well, I was…er…wondering how you two…um…knew each other.”�

He coughed and covered his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shook slightly as he coughed again, not removing his gloved hand from his mouth. I turned from my staring at the corner and narrowed my eyes at him, poking him in the chest, “You had better not be laughing at me,”� I threatened, touching my fingertips gently to a large knot forming on the side of my head and wincing.

Harry’s demeanor changed instantaneously as he turned to me concernedly and gently pulled my hand away, leaning in closer to examine my head. “Are you okay?”� he asked, letting go of my hand and squinting at the knot.

_I am now that you’re about two inches from my face_ , I thought.

_ What? No. I didn’t mean that. It’s the concussion talking _ _._

_Sure. Which is why you’re thinking about that dream you had the other night with the bathtub and the-_

_ Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! That was a **dream.** I was…stressed. _

_Mmhmm. Must be **stressed** now, as well, considering what’s going through your head._

_ I’m not listening to you. I’m ignoring you. We’re fighting. Go away. _

I abandoned the voice in my head and managed to get control enough over my mouth to scoff at him, “Oh yes,”� I said sarcastically, “I’m just _dandy_. I only got walloped in the head by a _brick_ , is all. Really, it’s not that big a deal. I imagine I only have a _slight_ concussion. Maybe. Per _haps_.”� I glared at him moodily and went back to prodding the knot on my head and wallowing in self-pity. Who cared if he was acting all knight-in-shining-armor-like? I didn’t care. Not me. I didn’t see him like that anyways.

_Yes, that’s the spirit. Stay in denial. It’s such a healthy way to handle things._

_ Shut up. He’s just really…really…attractive. Is all. Nothing more. _

_Right, and Cornelius Fudge is Merlin’s long lost cousin looking to save the world by partaking in numerous selfless acts and miracle workings._

Harry’s lips twitched again before he pulled back a bit to look at me, holding out a pack of ice he had apparently conjured while examining my injury, “Well, I hope your ego’s not too bruised. She may have been small but that little old lady had an arm on her, didn’t she?”�

He was grinning teasingly at me and I was suddenly gripped with a very strong urge to shove the cucumber in his hand up his knightly arse. I snatched the ice pack from his hand, smacking him upside the head as I did so, and then fixed a glare on him worthy of Salazaar Slytherin himself.

“You will _never_ mention this little episode _again_ ,”� I hissed at him, gently pressing the ice pack to my head and adding, “Ever.”� Threateningly. Just to clarify.

He grinned at me mischievously and unfolded himself from his crouched position, standing up to lean back on his heels and look down at me. I glared up at him menacingly as I could considering the circumstances; I doubted a woman holding an ice-pack to her head while glaring at you was very frightening, but I gave it a shot anyways.

“Oh, I won’t?”� he asked, pushing his hands into his pockets and raising his eyebrows at me.

I cursed his messy hair at that moment, as it was catching all the snowflakes around it and distracting me from my task at hand. Which was being mad at him for laughing at me while I was being brutally attacked by a mad Wheatie Stealer. 

And threatening him with acts of unadulterated evilness and cruelty.

“No,”� I said, glaring harder, “You won’t.”�

Harry seemed to contemplate this, looking up at the black sky above him and squinting one eye in thought. “Well now,”� he said, looking back down at me, “How do you figure that?”�

I stood up slowly, careful to keep my head as motionless as possible and then stepped towards Harry threateningly, “Because if you don’t keep quiet about it,”� I growled, “I’ll be forced to Bat-Bogey you so forcefully that by the time you can see straight again, you’re fame will be nothing more than an old wive’s tale that no one really believes.”�

Harry seemed impressed at my little spiel, quirking his mouth into a grin before he leaned a little closer to me, “I’d be scared if it weren’t for three things,”� he said, whispering. I ignored the shiver that went down my spine at his close proximity and lowered voice with difficulty, “One: I’m an Auror, you’ll remember, and I’m rather good at blocking spells if I do say so myself. Two: You’re holding an ice pack to your head. And three: I,”� here he pulled a wand out of his cloak with a fourish, “have your wand.”�

I gaped at him in fury for a few seconds before snatching at my wand. He jerked it out of reach and grinned, “Ah ah ah, Ginny dear. Not until you promise not to hex me.”� I glared at him some more and snatched for my wand again.

“Give that back,”� I told him, irritably fisting a hand on my hip, “Right now.”�

He only chuckled and held the wand further out of my reach. “You have to agree to the terms of the arrangement.”�

“I don’t like the terms of the arrangement.”�

He pouted at me mockingly, “Well that’s just too bad, now isn’t it?”� He twirled my wand between his fingers absently.

I growled at him and then lunged, intent on tackling him to the ground. I’d had lots of practice with my brothers, I was fairly sure I could take him if I used the element of surprise. It’d worked on Bill and Charlie loads of times, though I usually had the employment of a garden gnome to help me. Distractions, you know. All I had to do was offer them copious amounts of butterbeer, and they were mine.

Harry’s Auror training, however, had paid off, and he merely side-stepped me and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me to him so that my back was flush against his chest.

My breath hitched and my eyes widened. My ice pack dropped to the ground beside us.

_Ha!_ said the voice in my head, _I told you so!_

Sweet Merlin, this was bad.

I could feel him breathing behind me, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the puffs of air I felt on the top of my head. His arm was tight around my torso and his gloved fingers were splayed against my side, holding me to him firmly. He was warm, and I thought I heard his breath hitch just slightly as I turned my head to look at him. All the little voices in my head that had been dormant for three long years suddenly burst to life and positively screamed at me to notice how sexy and fresh-pickeled-toadlike his eyes were.

Aw dammit. I was falling for him.

_Again_.

_ Go. AWAY, you nasty little squid spawn! _

I thought it was a bad sign that the voices in my head were cackling at me mockingly.

Harry was quiet a moment before he chuckled slightly, “Now now, Gin,”� he said, amusement lacing his tone, “No need to hurt yourself further.”�

My earlier musings were forgotten as I turned around in his grasp sharply and banged my fist against his chest, “You are harassing an invalid!”� I proclaimed, glaring up at him and trying desperately to make the voices in my head shut up.

It didn’t work. And Harry joined in their laughing, throwing his head back in the falling snow, and my breath hitched again as I stared at him. He looked back down at me again and stepping back, released me from his grasp. “You’re hardly an invalid, Gin. Especially if I give you back your wand.”�

I scooped up my ice pack from the ground and placed it back against my head, pointing to it with my other hand, “Not an invalid, eh? My head bloody _hurts_!”� I was doing my best to ignore the familiar tug of desire in my stomach and instead turned on my heel and marched towards the alleyway behind the grocery.

Harry jogged up beside me and put an arm around my shoulders. I cursed him silently and told the voices to shut up about how _strong_ and _warm_ and _beautiful_ his arm was.

Honestly, _beautiful arms_. I was in for it this time if I was describing his limbs as _beautiful_. That was a sure sign of a debilitating and rapid downfall, that was.

“So, what are you going to do about the guano?”� Harry asked as we reached the dumpster behind the store and stopped.

I blinked at him for a few seconds.

The guano.

The _bat shit_ , I should say.

The _BAT SHIT_.

That _Hermione_ sent me on a _wild bowtruckle chase_ for.

I turned smoldering eyes to Harry, “Guano,”� I told him, “is bat shit.”�

Harry’s lips twitched slightly as he nodded.

“You knew that guano was bat shit,”� I told him, “That’s why you did the lip twitching thing.”�

As if to prove my point, his lips twitched.

_I’d like to get a taste of those lips, I would._

_ Oh for the love of Merlin, would you **shut up**! _

“I hate you,”� I declared, spinning on my heel and apparating to the alleyway beside Hermione’s flat. I heard Harry pop in behind me. I ignored him and began walking along the wall towards the back doorway into the building.

“Aw, come on, Gin,”� Harry said, following behind me, “I helped you out.”�

I snorted, “Oh, did you? How d’you reckon that?”�

Harry grinned at me and pulled a long black tube from inside the plastic grocery bag he was carrying. He handed it to me and smiled proudly.

I turned the tube over in my hands and examined it carefully, “…What is it?”� I asked, unscrewing the top a bit as I did so.

“Bat shit,”� said Harry.

I immediately stopped unscrewing the tube to glance up at him in disbelief, “They actually _had_ that in there?”� I asked in amazement.

“Well, not technically. That’s actually mascara, but it’s made from bat shit.”�

Mascara? _Mascara?_ The stuff I swiped on my eyelashes every morning from the magical cosmetics kit in my bathroom?

It was made of _bat shit_?

"How do you know?" I asked him.

He shrugged, "The sales lady told me."

I stared at the tube in my hand and wrinkled my nose at it, “Ew,”� I said.

Harry just laughed, “I can’t imagine why Hermione didn’t just tell you to get mascara. Don’t know why she had to call it guano.”�

I snapped my head up to him sharply and then looked towards the window I knew was Hermione’s. I narrowed my eyes menacingly, “I wonder why, indeed.”� I said, starting towards the door again.

Oh, Hermione was going to _pay_.

And so was Harry, for that matter.

The wanker.

_The sexy beast sent from Heaven._

**_ SHUT IT! _ **

I shoved open the door to Hermione's apartment building and darted up the stairs two at a time, Harry trailing behind me. I ran to the end of the hall, tapped on the windowsill in front of me three times, and then banged fiercely on the door that had suddenly taken the place of the window.

"Hermione Jane Granger! You let me in RIGHT THIS INSTANT or I swear to MERLIN I will burn your DELUXE EDITION of _Hogwarts, A History_ until it is nothing more than a pile of UNRECOGNIZABLE ASH!" I screamed, ramming my fist on the wood repeatedly.

Harry stood behind me and watched the scene unfold in slight apprehension, though I'm pretty sure he was more amused than anything. Stupid prat, always so bloody _carefree_ now he'd killed Voldemort. Which I suppose was a good reason, but still. He was supposed to be _intervening_ or something.

I was just beginning a new onslaught of slamming when the door was suddenly thrown open. I fell forwards and grabbed the door frame to keep from landing on my face between the two pink fuzzy slippers of the girl who had opened the door.

"Merlin, Ginny," she said, "Would you stop making such a bloody racket? The Muggles are going to--OH MY GOD!" And then she let out a piercing shriek that could have rivaled that of a banshee's.

I winced at the pain it was causing in my head and looked up to see an alien standing in the doorway of Hermione Granger's apartment. It was staring at Harry, and it was very pink, clad from head to toe in a pink bathrobe, pink socks, pink slippers, and a pink shower cap adorning it's very green head. It's very green and _slimy_ head.

I stared at it and then turned to Harry, who was looking quite terrified at the moment, staring transfixed at the alien in the doorway.

"They've eaten her," I told him, "The aliens have eaten Hermione."

Before Harry could respond, the alien shrieked in it’s unearthly voice again and slammed the door forcefully.

Right onto my fingers, which were still gripping the doorframe.

My shriek rivaled the alien's, and I'm pretty sure Harry went temporarily deaf.

Not that he didn't deserve it.

_...Well, ow._

_ For once, I agree. _

**_Go on, loo-hoo! Tell me what ya think, ya?  
_ **


	8. Exploded Green Chickens from Hell

**_A/N: That noise you're hearing? It's a fanfare and a hallelujah chorus._ **

**_Yes. I've finally updated! Read on, loo-hoos! And tell me what you think, ya?_ **

**_Merry belated Christmas!_ **

**_-h_ **

Exploded Green Chickens From Hell

__

For Toni,  
Who inspired me with her determination   
To get her own story written just because  
I badgered her so much.  
Love you, dearie!

“Oh Merlin. Oh my sodding _Merlin_ …I think it’s broken. Luna, you’re a Healer, is it broken? Tell me the truth, I can handle it, just give it to me straight.”�

I held my now thoroughly purple fingers out towards my dreamy-eyed friend and turned my head away dramatically, shutting my eyes and putting on quite the convincing act of being brave. I heard Hermione snort in annoyance and mentally moved her to the very tippy top of my shit list.

I peeked an eye open to watch Luna. She was peering at my fingers with a small frown on her face. “Hmmmm,”� she said.

I closed my eyes again and brought the back of my uninjured hand to my forehead in a gesture of tragic doom. I sucked in a deep breath. “They’re going to have to amputate, aren’t they?”� I whispered quietly.

Susan Bones let out a small cry and wrung her hands in despair. She fluttered about me and fretted worriedly. “Oh no. Oh my goodness, Ginny, I’m so _sorry_!”� Her eyes began to brim with tears and I felt a little guilty putting on such a show. “We’ll have a burial, Ginny,”� said Susan, “We’ll invite everyone we know. It’ll be the biggest one since Dumbledore’s, God rest his soul. Your fingers will not have died in vain!”� 

Oh geez. Now I was _really_ starting to feel guilty. I opened my mouth to protest and tell her than I really didn’t think my fingers deserved such a kerfuffle, but I was hindered by the finger she had immediately put over my mouth. “Shhhh,”� she said, “Don’t you worry, I’ll handle everything. Oh, this is all my fault!”� She was wailing a bit now, her hands waving about her face as she looked about Hermione’s flat frantically.

“Carnations,”� she muttered, “We’re going to need carnations. Lots of them. Lots and lots of carnations…”� She bustled as quickly as she could in her fuzzy pink slippers over to Hermione’s couch and picked up a pillow, peering underneath it as if she expected to find a bouquet of the sickly-sweet smelling flowers beneath it.

Hermione shot me a look that clearly said, “ _Now_ look what you’ve done,”� before walking over and placing a comforting hand on Susan’s back. 

“Now now, Susan dear. Ginny’s fingers are perfectly fine,”� she said.

I looked down at my swollen plum-colored fingers and raised an eyebrow. Fine wasn’t exactly the word I would have used to describe them. More like… _not_ fine. Like maybe in _dire_ pain. Or _throbbing_ pillars of _excruciating_ pain and _unalleviatable_ torture and unhealthiness.I opened my mouth to make this proclamation, but Susan cut me off.

“They are?”� she asked, turning to Hermione hopefully, the tears glistening in her eyes.

_No_ , I thought, _They aren’t_.

Hermione rubbed her hand in comforting circles on Susan’s back. “Yes,”� she said, “They are.”� She looked at me menacingly before turning to Luna. “No one’s going to amputate Ginny’s fingers, are they Luna?”�

Luna looked up from examining my fingers dreamily, “Hmmm?”� she said. And then she nodded, “Oh yes. We won’t have to amputate them.”� She smiled vaguely and looked back at my fingers, “But you know, if you look at them the right way,”� she cocked her head to the side slightly, “They look a bit like the abdomen of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”�

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. Susan sniffed and leaned forward to peer at my fingers, her pink shower cap crinkling softly. “Really?”� she asked, cocking her head to the side a bit, “I don’t see it.”�

Oh, you don’t? Really? Because I do. Most definitely. They look _exactly_ like the abdomen of a _nonexistent_ , indescribable creature. Definitely. No doubt about it at all.

Luna looked up at her and reached up to tilt Susan’s green face a fraction of an inch to the left. “There,”� she said, “See?”�

Susan’s eyes widened. “Ohhhh!”� she said, “Oh, I see it now!”� She nodded emphatically. Hermione rolled her eyes again.

I blinked up at both of them. “You’ve seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?”� I asked Susan.

She frowned in thought. “Well,”� she said, “Well, no…”� She looked a bit confused with herself.

Luna let out a soft little laugh and patted Susan’s arm assuredly. “Of course she hasn’t!”� she said as if this were obvious, “No one’s ever actually _seen_ one before!”� She laughed again and then gripped Susan’s arm a little tighter as she bent over double, overcome by giggles. 

I stared at her. And then I stared at my Crumple-Horned Snorkack fingers. And then I stared at her again.

_Right…_ , I thought.I cocked my head to the side as I examined my fingers. _Hmmm, I suppose I do see a bit of a resemblance…_

Luna snorted loudly and wiped tears away from beneath her eyes. Susan patted the top of her head and giggled hesitantly. Hermione rolled her eyes again and disappeared into the kitchen. 

“Oh, honestly,”� she muttered under her breath as she passed through the doorway. Her voice grew louder as she called out to us, “Luna, just numb her stupid fingers would you?”�

I gasped loudly and glared at the kitchen doorway, “My fingers are _not_ stupid, Hermione!”�

Hermione ignored me, “And if everyone’s through being ridiculous, you can all come in here and help me make these potions.”� 

Susan’s eyes widened and she hurried to the kitchen. “Oh, I forgot about the potions,”� she cried a bit worriedly, “They haven’t simmered for too long have they? Oh dear, this is _all_ my fault!”� 

Noises of reassurance from Hermione could be heard through the walls of the kitchen, and I glanced at Luna after Susan had disappeared. “She seems a bit more worried than normal lately, doesn’t she?”� I asked her.

Luna wiped another tear from her eye and took out her wand. “Oh, do you think so?”� she asked, in a totally unconvincing voice of innocence.

She took my hand gently and waved her wand over it in a spiraling motion, muttering a spell under her breath. My throbbing fingers felt as if they were being dipped in a blanket of feathers before they suddenly ceased to feel anymore. I picked one up and let it flop down again amusedly.

Luna put her wand back behind her ear. I tapped at my fingers some more. “Thanks,”� I said. And then I narrowed my eyes at her, “Now what do you know that I don’t?”�

Luna cocked her head to the side, “Whatever do you mean?”�

I narrowed my eyes some more, “You know something.”�

Luna nodded, “Oh, well I know a lot of things.”� She inclined her head towards my purple fingers, “One of which being that if you don’t stop poking at your fingers like that they’re going to hurt a whole lot worse when the numbing spell wears off.”�

I always found it rather odd when Luna went into her Healer mode. She was almost coherent when she did. It was discombobulating. Almost disturbing. Like the balance of the Universe was being thrown off course or something.

I stopped poking at my fingers and got up to follow Luna into the kitchen. “Well, I still say you have a secret,”� I said.

Luna nodded her head. “Well, of course I do!”�

I raised my eyebrows at her and waved a hand for her to speak, “Well, then what is it!?”�

Luna stopped and looked at me very seriously. “Oh no, Ginny. I can’t tell you what it is,”� she shook her head solemnly, “That would break all the rules of friendship. Friends always trust each other to keep secrets.”�

I looked at her fondly. She was so filled with introspective child-like innocence sometimes that I wondered if she had ever truly grown up. It was bloody annoying sometimes, though. I happened to want to know the damn secret.

“Besides, I wouldn’t want a Joppledodder after me.”� She smiled at me again and turned to help Hermione. I didn’t bother to ask what a Joppledodder was and instead looked over her shoulder to have a look at the potions Hermione was so adamant about.

“Holy Hades! What in the _hell_ is that!?”� I recoiled in horror and disgust from the lumpy green concoction Luna was now stirring contentedly. Hermione glanced up from chopping some sort of insect into quarters and looked at the glop.

“Mint Julep Avocado Face Masque,”� she said briskly before turning back to her insect. “And don’t curse, Ginny,”� she added. She sprinkled the insect cubes into a potion she had simmering on a small blue flame beside her.

“A face mask?”� I repeated.

“Masque,”� said Hermione.

“That’s what I said. Mask.”�

“ _Masque_! With a ‘q-u-e,’ Ginny. _Honestly._ ”�

Oh, well _excuse_ me, daughter of Lucifer. I'll be sure to check my pronunciation next time!

I stared at her back and then looked at Susan, who was happily pounding away at avocadoes with a mallet the size of a medium-sized to slightly large bear cub before scraping the goo left behind into the bowl Luna was stirring.

“Is that what’s on your face?”� I asked her, eyeing the mallet a bit warily.

She nodded cheerily, “Of course! What’d you think it was, silly?”� She pounded her mallet down again with a crash.

I marveled at her sudden change of mood for a moment before composing myself. “Well, I don’t know. I was too polite to ask in case it was some sort of permanent, life-altering, and/or highly contagious disease.”�

Susan laughed merrily before continuing to pound the avocadoes with her mallet. Luna looked up briefly from her stirring to smile at me serenely, “I don’t think there are any diseases that make you turn into an alien, Ginny. Don’t you worry.”� 

“Right. Thanks, Luna,”� I said. Then I added, “I don’t think I’ll be wearing that mask, thank-“

“Ginny, did you bring the guano? I need it, please,”� Hermione interrupted.

I froze in my formation of the word ‘thanks’ and slowly turned to face my very best friend, future sister-in-law, and soon-to-be-dead walking reference book.

I growled menacingly. I mean, this was a full fledged rabid dragon on steroids growl. I would have pissed my pants had this growl been directed towards me.

Susan paused in her avocado pulverizing to look up at me in alarm. Luna began to hum a funeral march merrily.

Hermione continued to slice away at her insects before frowning impatiently, “Ginny! The guano!”�

Oh, I’d give her guano, alright. I’d give her _mounds_ of guano.

“Oh, I’m sorry Hermione,”� I said sweetly, “Don’t you mean _bat shit_!?”�

Susan’s mallet smashed onto an avocado and a slimy squelch was heard as the gooey insides shot out and splattered onto my face.

“Oops,”� said Susan cheerily. “Sorry, Ginny.”�

I ignored her and wiped the goop from my face. I looked down at my hand and examined it. I turned it clockwise and examined it again. I turned it counterclockwise and examined it some more.

Then I threw it at Hermione. It splattered onto the back of her head, covering her bushy brown hair in green glop and slowly creeping down to slime the back of her neck. She went completely still, her knife hovering over the decapitated form of a very large praying mantis. 

I reckoned I knew why the mantis had been praying.

Susan’s mouth fell open in shock and her free hand flew up to her mouth. Luna paused in her humming of her funeral march long enough to glance at Hermione, glance at Susan, dip her hand in her concoction of green gloop, and calmly reach over to place it in Susan’s hair. She patted Susan’s head a few times before humming ironically again and splatting some of the goop on her own head. She then resumed stirring.

I ignored Luna’s antics and instead smiled in a purely self-satisfied manner, wiping my hands on the back of Hermione’s shirt.

Yes, I know. I am just _that_ good.

For about ten seconds all that could be heard was Luna’s merry funeral march and her wooden spoon scraping the edges of the bowl of green glop. 

Then Hermione threw her cutting knife across the room like one of those professional Muggle circus people. It impaled the opposite wall and reverberated there for a few seconds before finally going still, half the blade speared into the wall.

I stared at it wide-eyed. _This_ is what my brother was marrying? 

…Hot damn! Talk about retribution for all those tricks he ever played on me! I nearly cackled with glee thinking of all the ways I could get him to piss her off enough to have her throwing knives at him. Oh, this was going to be just _priceless_!

That is, if I lived long enough to see Ron mutilated by her. She had just turned around and was looking at me with a face that was so livid I thought it might rival Mum’s when Fred and George had actually sent me that Hogwarts toilet seat they promised when I was ten.

I backed away from her slowly and wondered if my life insurance money would benefit anyone when she killed me. I really didn’t have much after I’d bought my flat two weeks previously…

“Now Hermione,”� I attempted, “Let’s think things through rationally, shall we?”�

Hermione’s eyes narrowed and she reached a hand into Luna’s gloop. “Fuck rationality,”� she said. I paled; Hermione had _cursed_. Bad sign. Very bad sign. 

Holy hippogriffs, _bad sign_!

“Girls,”� she continued, keeping her eyes fixed on my face but addressing Luna and Susan, “Let’s get her.”� She held a handful of the green gloop by her shoulder, ready to launch it at me.

Luna bounced up cheerfully, still humming her funeral march, and grabbed her bowl before turning towards me and smiling. She pulled her spoon from the concoction with a squelch, reared it behind her head, and launched the glop at me full force. It flew at me like a raging bowtruckle with a stomach ache.

My eyes widened and I managed to duck just before it splattered into my face. It sailed over my head and flattened against the wall behind me with a thud. I looked at it with wide eyes for a second before I was ducking quickly again and narrowly missing another green projectile.

I looked back, astounded at their behavior, and caught sight of Susan feeling the back of her head with her free hand. She brought her hand around to her face and peered at the green goo spread across her fingers. She looked up at me and shrugged, letting out a war whoop as she lugged her mallet up and over her head and came at me full steam ahead. 

“ _Shit_!”� I yelled, ducking down and running through the kitchen door and into the sitting room. I heard Susan’s mallet crash into the wall I had just been cowering against.

Great _Agrippa_ , they’d gone mad…

Hermione and Susan let out two identical war whoops and burst through the kitchen doorway and into the sitting room. I dove for the couch just as Hermione launched some more goo at me. The girl wouldn’t have been a half-bad chaser is she could fly worth a twit. The goop connected with my face just before I fell behind the couch in front of her fireplace.

I wiped the goo out of my eye and took a deep breath. “Ladies,”� I implored from behind Hermione’s furniture, grasping at straws, “Let’s not ruin Hermione’s couch, alright? I’m sure it has some sort of sentimental value to her.”�

I poked my head out from behind the couch and peered at them. Luna and Susan had both turned to Hermione questioningly. She regarded her couch thoughtfully.

“Hmmm,”� she said, frowning at it. “Actually, I’ve always hated that couch…”� And she splattered my face with another projectile. I ducked back behind the couch. Susan let out another whoop and jumped onto the couch, mallet raised above her head manically.

I let out a pitiful little whimper and prayed someone would be kind enough to bury me with some food like I’d asked.

“Um, Ginny?”� A deep voice sounded behind me and I stumbled as I attempted to launch myself over the couch and beyond Susan’s crazed reach. I tumbled onto the couch and took Susan’s legs out from under her, her mallet coming down hard on the back of the couch. 

The pillows exploded in a giant cloud of feathers.

I looked up at Susan who was now lying on top of me her face covered in feathers. Both of us wedged between the couch and Hermione’s coffee table. She still looked rather crazed. Like an exploded green chicken from hell.

I covered my face with my arms and whimpered again. “Just bury me with food! Please God, just bury me with food!”�

I felt Susan still above me. I peeked through my arms at her. She looked stunned. “Ginny?”� she asked.

I looked at her and removed my arms from my face a bit more, “Yes?”� Probably I looked like an exploded green chicken from hell just like Susan, I reckoned, and blew at a feather attached to my nose.

“Was I just coming after you with a mallet roughly the size and shape of a small bear cub?”�

I shook my head and blew at the feather that had stuck to the glop on my nose, “No, it was more like a medium-sized to slightly large bear cub.”�

She wailed and pulled me into as much of a bone-crushing hug as she could manage being wedged halfway underneath the coffee table. I patted her back and continued blowing at the feather on my nose.

“Oh, I’m so _sorry,_ Ginny! I don’t know what came _over_ me!”�

I was starting to have trouble breathing and Susan’s mallet was digging into my side. I patted her back some more.

“It’s alright, Susan. But could you get off me please? I’m kind of having trouble breathing…”�

She yelped and jumped off me, shoving the coffee table out of the way as she did so. I removed the mallet from my side and scrambled to get up.

“Ginny?”� I heard again from behind me. I turned to see Harry Potter’s head resting in the flames of Hermione’s fire. His eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Shit!”� before his head disappeared again.

I stared at the fire confusedly, “Harry?”� I said, moving to kneel in front of the fire. Susan peered over my shoulder.

“Harry’s here?”� she asked cheerfully.

I stared at her for a few seconds, wondering how on earth she went from screaming like a banshee seeing him in the hallway, to fluttering about me worriedly, to mutilating avocadoes in the kitchen, to wailing on my shoulder, to eagerly awaiting to speak with him with such ease. I looked back at the fire when I heard a small pop.

Harry’s head was back in the fire. He smiled sheepishly at me, his hair more ruffled than normal as if he had been rubbing the top of his head. “You, um…startled me,”� he said, wincing when he accidentally touched the top of his head to the stone fireplace.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s probably because Hermione and Luna attacked me with some green shit and Susan exploded the couch on me with a mallet roughly the size and shape of a medium-sized to slightly large bear cub,”� I told him. Susan nodded emphatically behind me and held her mallet up as if to validate my point.

Harry stared at us a bit before shaking his head as if to clear it and speaking again. “Right, um…Ok, well I have the cucumber and the bat shit that you left in the hallway…”� He looked over my head and his eyes widened a bit. “Hi Hermione, how are yo–oh.”� He raised his eyebrows in slight bewilderment as Hermione dumped the contents of Luna’s bowl over my head.

I didn’t move as I felt the glop slide down my face and neck and melt with the feathers onto the floor. It made its way into my left ear canal and crept slowly down my shirt and into my bra. I looked at Harry in misery. “Help me,”� I said. “Please. Save me from the nutters. Have some humanity.”�

Harry opened his mouth to speak but Hermione cut him off. “What’s this you say about guano, Harry dear?”� she asked, sugary venom lacing her words.

Harry visibly paled. Probably he knew that tone. Probably he’d heard that tone before. Probably he knew better than to talk to whoever it was that was eliciting that tone from her.

But it still ticked me off when he tore his gaze from my pitiful form and gulped up at Hermione. I could be just as terrifying as she could, goddammit! Just because I was covered in goop and she wasn’t didn’t mean he was allowed to ignore me and pay attention to her! Oh, he just needed to _wait and see_ what I could do to him…

I glared daggers at him as he talked to Hermione, “Um, I’ve got it right…”� he paused, probably rummaging around in his flat for the guano. “Right here,”� his hand popped out of the fire holding the grocery bag. Hermione took it primly.

“Thank you, Harry,”� she said, and flounced off to the kitchen to continue with her potion. I stuck my tongue out at her back but then retracted it quickly when some of the glop got on it. I gagged and made spitting noises in an attempt to get the taste out of my mouth.

Luna came humming over to the fireplace with her spoon covered in glop. She kneeled in front of the fire, still humming, and calmly plopped her spoon onto the side of Harry’s face, sliding it down to his chin before retracting it and smiling at him dreamily.

Harry blinked at her a few times. “Um…Thanks, Luna,”� he said. Luna saluted him with her spoon.

“You’re very welcome Harry,”� she said. “Remember the Twinklenose revolt of 1348 next time you’re shaving!”� She patted his head softly with her glop-covered spoon and then got up to walk back into the kitchen.

Harry stared after her. “I’ll do that,”� he muttered.

Susan watched her go for a moment before turning back to Harry. “Well, it was lovely seeing you, Harry!”� she bubbled before standing up and positively skipping from the room, humming Luna’s funeral march under her breath.

I stared after them for a few moments before turning back to Harry. He put his hand to the back of his head and glanced at me. “Right well, I’d best be going then…”� he said.

“Don’t even think about it, Harry Potter,”� I whispered menacingly. “You save me from these nutters _this instant_ or I swear to you I will _rip your di-_ “ He popped out of the fireplace.

I let out a roar of fury and looked around frantically for the Floo powder so I could go finish my threat and then make good on it. Another pop emitted from the fire and I looked down just in time to see a bottle of amber liquid shoot from the fire, a halfway charred note attached to the neck of it. I caught it quickly and turned it over to read the label.

_Doc Herbert’s Flaming Firewhisky_ , it said. _It’ll set your throat on fire and your butthole too!_

I stared at it. Then I ripped the cork out and took a very large swig. I gasped as it burnt its way down my throat.

_I reckon you need this more than I do. Good luck with the nutters!_   
_-Harry_

I took another swig of the fiery liquid and incinerated the note in my hand. 

Oh, it was on, Harry Potter. It was _on_.

**_A/N: Well, there we go. Review, loo-hoos! Tell me what you think!_ **

**_Happy Holidays!_ **

**_-h_ ** __


	9. Ernie's Great-Uncle Walter's Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee

**_A/N: Woohoo! Only two months this time!_ **

**_Updates should be a bit speedier from now on considering I've happened upon a bit more inspiration as well as free time :P Longest chapter yet, loo-hoos! Hope you enjoy!_ **

**_Review!_ **

**_-h_ **

**_Disclaimer: No._ **

<center>Ernie's Great-Uncle Walter's Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee</center>

<center> _For three day weekends,  
Dormant Muses Awoken,_ _  
Freak snow flurries in_ _Dixie_ ,  
_And Diet Grapico._  
Because you keep me semi-sane. </center>

 

Unless I was sorely mistaken, the frontal lobe of my cranium was in one of three compromising predicaments. 

One: it was wedged quite thoroughly between a giant’s hindquarters and his favorite sitting rock.

Two: it had become alienated from my body and was now being used to plug a dam in a remote village in Yugoslavia.

Or three: it was being subject to a whopping terror of a hangover.

Upon opening my eyes for the briefest of moments and being greeted with the sight of feathers, green slime, and the charred remains of a shower cap and fuzzy pink bunny slippers, I decided I was in fact sorely mistaken (a rarity, but it happens). There was a fourth compromising predicament.

I was in hell and the exploded green chickens were pecking my eyeballs out.

I shut my eyes quickly and moaned pitifully. “Unnnnngghhh,” I said. Hermione’s living room carpet rubbed against my face as I slowly turned over, and I realized I was still covered in dried green slime. Wrinkling my nose and feeling a few flakes crack and slough off, I gingerly moved to a sitting position and lifted my eyelids cautiously.

I snapped them shut again when the chickens renewed their pecking with a vigor. “Unnnnnnggghhh,” I said again as I slowly and deliberately lifted myself from the floor. Extending a wobbling arm in front of me, I groped around until my fumbling fingers came in contact with the wooden mantelpiece, and I slowly took a step forward. I steadied myself, repositioned my hand a little farther up the mantelpiece, and then took another careful step forward. And then I did it again. And again. And again. And ag-

“Aaaiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” I jumped in unadulterated terror as the floor beneath my careful-stepping foot let out a shriek that remarkably resembled what I thought a merperson might sound like if you tickled them with their own spear and then stole their grindylow and sold it to a black market glove-making company. All _above_ water.

And then the floor bit my heel. Hard.

“Bugger!” went me as I yanked my foot from the now-thrashing floor and tumbled to the ground in a flailing heap. I lay there in amazement for a moment before frantically getting to my hands and knees and blindly hurling myself across the carpet. I catapulted straight into something hard, unmoving, and feather-filled. My head plunged through its outside fabric covering and I suddenly found myself blinking into the dark recesses of Hermione’s mallet-destroyed sofa.

Before I could comprehend attempting to remove my own head from the sofa, a low growl emitted from the floor at my feet and I whimpered as I felt something grab my ankles and give an almighty yank. My head popped out of the couch with a bit of a _flup!_ , and I suddenly found myself pinned beneath something large, soft, and spittingly angry. I stared up with abnormally wide eyes at a bona fide giant exploded green chicken from hell.

“Bugger,” I squeaked, staring up at the chicken in horror.

It looked pissed. And horrifying. And enraged. So enraged, in fact, that its head seemed to have burst into furious flames. Wrathful flames. _Evil_ flames.

It was terrifying. I was terrified. The floor beneath my head was terrified. Every individual fiber of the carpet covering the floor beneath my head was terrified. The atoms of oxygen in the air between me and the exploded green chicken were terrified.

The fucking _fabric_ of the _universe_ was terrified. They felt the terror of the vision in front of me in all the infinite alternate universes of all the infinite planets of all the infinite galaxies of all the infinite expanses of time. The terror they felt even triggered a few of the infinite alternate universes of the infinite planets of the infinite galaxies of the infinite expanses of time their very own individual apocalypses.

That’s how terrifying it was. Apocalypsly terrifying.

“Bugger bollocks bugger bugger arse,” I said, cowering beneath my arms. The chicken above me growled again (“Bugger bugger bugger bugger…”) and let out a particularly evil-sounding war-cry, snarling down at me like a constipated dragon with a broken toe rapidly developing Gangrene (“ _Buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbugger_ …”).

I felt the chicken’s weight shift above me and peeked an eye out between my arms. It had Susan’s mallet raised above its head with the obvious intention of bashing my head in (“BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER…”). The chicken let out another evil-sounding war-cry and threw it’s green flaming head back as it prepared to smash me just like the poor helpless avocado’s in Hermione’s Mint Julep Avocado _Masque_.

With a ‘q-u-e,’ though that hardly mattered now I was about to _perish_.

“BUGERRRRRRRRRR…” I yelled, throwing my arms over my head once again, and you know how people say you think of the oddest things when you’re about to die?

Well, I thought of two. Two odd things, that is. One was Harry Potter’s left pinky’s fingernail which had turned purple the summer after he’d creamed Moldy Warts because I’d accidentally slammed the Burrow’s kitchen door on it.

The other was toilet paper and whether or not they had it in the afterlife. I hoped they did. Because I’d always taken it for granted and perhaps that meant they’d deny it to me in the afterlife so that I would realize that you have to appreciate the little things in life. And perhaps that meant I’d pretty much hate the afterlife.

And that would be most unfortunate considering I’d be spending the entire after of my life there.

As this thought entered my brain, the weight on top of me suddenly disappeared, and I was left frozen in a position of abject terror for close to twelve and nine-tenths of a second before I finally glanced over my arms to the empty air in front of me (“…Bugger?”).

The chicken was gone. Just like that. Its mallet lying abandoned on the floor next to a smoldering bunny slipper.

I slowly removed my arms from around my head, breathing hard. I blinked a few times and the chickens abated somewhat their incessant pecking of my eyeballs. I wondered briefly if perhaps I’d been hallucinating the flaming-headed chicken.

And then I started to feel a little relieved since I’d still be getting to use toilet paper.

And then I stopped feeling relieved and started feeling terrified again because of the squawk.

It was an earsplitting squawk from the bathroom down the hall. _Ear_ splitting. I imagined it sounded like what might happen if a blast-ended skrewt happened upon a pair of eyes and a large mirror.

I shot up to a sitting position, scrambled crab-style away from the couch, and pressed myself against the wall, my chest heaving as I gulped in air. Slowly I stood up and began shuffling down the hallway towards the bathroom, my hands pressed flat against the wall. Another squawk emitted from the bathroom doorway now directly beside me, though this time it was much more feeble and was converted to a low moan towards the end so that it sounded a bit like a music box winding down pitifully.

I slowly peeked around the doorframe. I frowned. I poked my head in a little farther.

“Susan?” I asked, slowly moving more of my body into the bathroom. I looked at the pink-robed lump leaning over the white ceramic bowl of the toilet and moved so that I was standing fully in the doorframe.

The lump moaned again and shifted so that I was suddenly greeted with the green feather-covered face of one Susan Bones and her remarkably chaotic flame-colored hair. Her eyes widened as she saw me and she managed to gasp out, “Ginny! I’m so sor-” before she turned back around and threw up in the toilet.

“-ry,” she finished, taking a deep shuddering breath. I hurried to the sink to wet a washcloth and press it against her head. I find it a testament of my superior friendship skills and unquestionable kindness that I only thought about running away from the puking girl twice before I did this.

Perhaps thrice. But that’s it.

I pressed the washcloth to her head and began wiping the dried slime and feathers from her face as she gasped in air.

“I’m so sorry, Ginny,” she said again, looking at me with wide apologetic eyes, “I thought you were a-” Her eyes widened even more and she turned back to the toilet quickly. I turned away and took a deep breath before turning back around, reaching over to flush the toilet, and rinsing the washcloth before going back to cleaning her face.

You learn a few things from Molly Weasley when you spend twenty-one years of your life with her.

“-a marshmallow,” she finished weakly. I stopped in my final rinsing of the washcloth and stared at her.

“You thought I was a what?” I asked, washcloth hanging limply from my fingers.

Susan hiccupped and wiped her now running nose with the sleeve of her bathrobe. Tears came streaming down her face. She hiccupped again, threw up, and then wailed, “A _marshmallooooowwwwww_ ,” before she collapsed into tears on my shoulder.

“It was _awful_!” she wailed. “I’ve been having these h-horrible dreams and there are k-k-killer marshm-mallows and they’re a-after the b-b-baaaabbbbyyyyy!”

I stared at the blue shower curtain in front of me in bewilderment and patted Susan’s back absently. “Baby? What baby? You thought I was a marshmallow?” I asked her.

She nodded feebly and sobbed, answering my last question, “Y-ye-yeeeesssssss,” burrowing further into my shoulder. I made a few shushing noises and craned my neck to look at myself in the mirror behind my head.

My hair was worse than Susan’s, sticking out in various tangled masses from my head. My face was caked in green avocado lumps, causing my head to look remarkably like a bubotuber cactus. And there were various odd feathers jutting out from the avocado lumps, including the one I’d never managed to blow off my nose the night before.

About the only reasoning I could see behind Susan’s proclamation was that I most definitely did not look human. But if Susan had eaten marshmallow’s that resembled my head…well, I thought we should rush her to a healer just as soon as possible.

I looked back down at the top of Susan’s disheveled head. “How much Firewhiskey did you _drink_ last night, Susan?”

She pulled back from my shoulder and stared at me with wide eyes.

“Oh no, Ginny,” she said, “I didn’t drink _any_ Firewhiskey. I would _never_ do that!”

I frowned at her in confusion. “What are you talking about? I’ve _seen_ you drink Firewhiskey bef-”

“Susan Macmillan, I hope very much you did not drink any of this last night!”

Susan and I turned to see Luna Lovegood standing in the doorway sternly, holding an empty bottle of Doc Herbert’s Flaming Firewhiskey in her right hand and shaking a finger at Susan with her left.

I remained completely confused. “Macmillan? What?” I asked, staring between Susan and Luna in bewilderment.

Susan shook her head vigorously at Luna, “No no no no. I didn’t Luna, I swear I didn’t.”

Luna retained her stern look. Which confused me even more considering the fact that the Universe went completely out of balance every time she morphed into her Healer Mode.

“Are you _positive_ you didn’t have any?” she asked.

Susan nodded fiercely.

“Oh yes. Oh yes, I am _positive_. I am one-hundred percent sure. I would _never_ do that to the baby.”

My mouth dropped open as I stared at them. Susan continued nodding at Luna. Luna smiled dreamily and turned around to walk backwards away from the bathroom.

I was too fixated on the previous conversation to question why she did this. “B-…baby? What baby?” I asked, staring at Susan. “Macmillan?”

Susan’s eyes widened and she fluttered her hands to my mouth.

“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she said, frantically pressing her hands against my mouth. “Shhhhh, Ginny! You can’t tell anyone. You can’t tell anyone about the baby!”

Pulling back from her hands I gaped at her. “You’re _preggers_?” I asked, fending her hands off with my own.

“Shhhhhh!” said Susan, “Shhh, Ginny! You can’t tell anyone!”

I finally managed to grab her wrists in my hands and keep her from squirming.

I looked at her. “Susan, you’re preggers?”

She looked at me and nodded weakly. I squealed and hugged her fiercely.

“That’s _wonderful_ , Susan! That’s _amazing_! Oh my Merlin, you’ve _got_ to name her after me!”

Susan laughed weakly into my shoulders. “No, I think it’s a boy, but it’s only been a month so Luna can’t tell yet. But Ginny, you can’t-”

I squealed again and hugged her harder. “Wow, this is just so wonderful, Susa-” I broke off and held her out to arms length. “Wait a minute, Macmillan? _Ernie_ Macmillan? You’re _married_ to Ernie Macmillan?”

Susan tackled me with her hands again and made shushing noises. “Be quiet, Ginny! You can’t tell anyone!”

Struggling against her hands, I stared up at her in indignation, “How come you didn’t invite me to the wedding?”

Susan sighed and leaned back against the toilet bowl. “There was no wedding,” she said dejectedly.

The indignation fell from my face as I stared at her. “No wedding? So you didn’t marry Ernie?”

“No, I did.”

“Well then how was there no wedding?”

Susan stared down at her feet. “Um…well…we kind of…eloped,” she said, a slight blush creeping up her neck. “When we found out…when we found out I was…preggers,” she finished, now a remarkable shade of scarlet.

I gaped at her. And then I beamed at her, “Susan Bones! You _devil_!”

She squeaked and hid behind her hands as I poked her arm. “You can’t tell anyone, though,” she said from behind her hands, “You really can’t.”

“How come?”

She lifted her slightly less flaming face from her hands and looked at me with tear-filled eyes.

“Because,” she started, her voice cracking in the middle of the word. “Because of Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter’s Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee!” she howled, once again collapsing to my shoulder in sobs.

I blew her hair away from my face and stared ahead in bafflement.

“…Ernie’s Uncle Wallace’s Gen-,” I shook my head in confusion. “Wait, what?”

Susan clutched the front of my robes with an alarming amount of desperation, and the lack of oxygen entering my lungs crept slowly towards becoming a worrisome dilemma.

Shaking her head in the negative, Susan threw her head back, hauling my collar with her, and wailed, “His Great-Uncle Waaaaaaaa-ha-ha-halllllllteeeerrrr-her-her-her.”

I choked up at her with ever-widening eyes and nodded emphatically. “Right,” I managed to squeeze out in a hoarse croak, “His Uncle Walter.”

“ _Great_ -Uncle.”

“Sorry, Great-Uncle.”

Sniffing up at the ceiling in misery, Susan let out a weak sob and released the lapel of my shirt. I breathed out a sigh of relief and reached up to rub my strangulated throat. Instead I found my hand entrapped in a tangle of red hair as Susan curled into a tight ball and rested her head on my chest, sniffing pitifully. Pulling my chin back and looking down at her in bafflement, I opened my mouth to speak.

“…Um, Susan?”

She nodded slightly and burrowed her head further into my chest.

“May I ask what Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter’s Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee has to do with you eloping?”

She winced slightly as I voiced the forbidden topic of her elopement.

“Because Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter accused _my_ Great-Uncle Edmund of stealing his Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee.” She sniffed again. “And don’t talk about you-know what.”

I nodded slowly. “So this…theft…is cause for much alarm and secrecy?”

She nodded. I frowned.

“ _Why_?”

She reached behind her back and tugged on a sheet of toilet paper, not bothering to detach it from its fellow sheets, and blew her nose loudly.

“Because now the Macmillan’s and the Bones’ _hate_ each other!” she said, her face crumpling a bit as she pulled out more toilet paper and blew her nose again.

I raised an eyebrow, “Because of a _toupee_?”

Susan’s eyes widened behind her mound of toilet tissue. “Not just _any_ toupee, Ginny,” she said, “A Genuine _Thestral_ -Hair Toupee!”

I stared, uncomprehending. “Thestral-Hair…Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose a bit? Having your toupee made out of thestral hair? I mean, thestrals are _invisible_ to most people…” I shuddered slightly at the memory of riding one of the cursed things in my fourth year.

“Yes but, that’s the whole _point_ ,” Susan exclaimed, waving her arms frantically. I scooted backwards discreetly, sensing another hysterical mood swing. Susan continued.

“There were only six Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupees ever made, and five of them got lost because no one could see them. Or if they could they thought they were just _regular_ toupees. Just a bit…iridescent, apparently is how thestral hair looks,” she said, looking perfectly somber. I bit my cheeks to keep from snorting in laughter.

“But they _weren’t_ regular toupees,” she said, flailing her arms out spasmodically. “They were _Thestral_ -Hair Toupees, and they were worth a _fortune_. Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter was the only person in the world with a Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee that knew he had one.”

I nodded slowly, still biting my cheeks. “So…he was proud of this toupee?”

Nodding emphatically and widening her eyes, Susan continued.

“Oh yes, he _always_ wore it.”

“He _wore_ the thing?” I asked in disbelief, thinking of the distinctly creepy aspect of wearing a death omen atop one’s head as well as the pointlessness of this action considering the number of people who’d never actually seen a person kick the cauldron.

Apparently Susan didn’t follow this same floo of thought, as she was now looking at me as if I’d just asked if splinching oneself was fun at all.

“What else would he do with it?” she asked, still staring at me.

I shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. It just seems a bit pointless, what with it being invisible to most people.”

Susan sighed. “Yes well, Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter thought it was hilarious, some people thinking he was bald and others thinking he had a full head of…iridescent…Well anyway, he used to set up Self-Scribing Quills all over the place so he could read people’s conversations after he’d spoken with them. Said it was funny reading all the debates concerning whether or not he actually had hair.”

I thought I’d rather like to meet Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter. He sounded hysterical. Probably I’d lose a few pounds conversing with him due to excess laughter.

Blowing her nose again and taking a deep breath, Susan resumed talking. “But none of that matters because now no one knows where Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter’s Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee is.”

“Because your Great-Uncle Edmund stole it?”

“Yes. Or that’s what Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter claimed. He said my Great-Uncle Edmund had always been jealous of his Genuine Thestral-Hair Toupee and couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being any better than him, so he stole it.”

“So your Uncle Edmund could see it, then?”

Susan frowned at me. “Of course not. No one in either the Macmillan family or the Bones family could see it. We’re all Hufflepuffs, both sides. Ernie and I are the only ones who’ve ever been involved in anything dangerous enough to see anyone die.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So how in Hogwarts did Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter _know_ his toupee was stolen?”

All I received in answer of my query was a blank stare. I nodded once slowly.

“Right then. Well then why don’t you and Ernie find a way to get the two men to apologize to each other? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about this family feud.”

Susan looked at me as if I were wearing a Genuine Thestral-Hair cloak and nothing else.

“They’re dead,” she proclaimed.

I gaped. How much more ridiculous could this story get?

Ha. I shouldn’t have even wondered…

“Dead?” I asked.

She nodded. “The best we can figure from the Self-Scribing Quills in Ernie’s Great-Uncle Walter’s dining room, Walter died from choking on a chicken bone and my Great-Uncle Edmund died choking on his own laughter witnessing the incident.”

See? Should I have even wondered?

My cheeks were in dangerous risk of being devoured.

“Well if they’re dead then why does it even matter?”

“Because they left it in their wills that no Bones or Macmillan get along until the mystery of the missing toupee is solved.”

Sweet Circe, this was worse than those ridiculous Soap Operas on WWN.

I fished desperately for something resembling comforting to say to the distraught preggers lady in front of me.

“Um…well…you could always…and then…find a way…I’m sure…with Ernie and…”

I’ve never been very good at fishing. My brothers _always_ used to catch the biggest fish in the pond behind the Burrow.

Susan watched me with hopeful eyes until I trailed off in defeat. Then the tears started welling again. Retrieving my washcloth and leaning forward, I wiped her tears and made some more sympathetic shushing noises. Sighing dejectedly as she missed her wad of toilet paper and blew her nose on my robe sleeve, I rubbed at a spot of green on the right side of her nose.

I’ve always been a fan of optimism despite my unfortunate experiences with six brothers, possessed diaries, stupidly noble boyfriends, psychotic warlords and their maniacal minions, and my ongoing enduring of ‘well-wishing’ friends and family setting me up with dull men with grandmas who are severely allergic to gravy and cats sufficiently lacking in their proposed nine lives.

Therefore, I looked upon my situation with as much sanguinity as I could muster and determined that the proverbial ‘bright side’ lay in the fact that Hermione had not yet woken up to find her flat in shambles and subsequently come to the conclusion that it was entirely my fault.

Too bad sanguinity, in its noun form, while at times can mean ‘cheerfully confident and/or optimistic,” can also in other situations deserving a more negative connotation of the term mean, in a word, ‘bloodthirsty.’

Hence:

“GINVEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY!”

The roar came from down the hall, in the vicinity of the living room, and it sounded like a pain potion addict who’s been denied his fix. And is also a werewolf. On a full moon. With a stomach full of bad boullibaise.

I froze in the act of patting Susan’s weeping head in sympathy and looked up in fear.

“Arse,” I said.

Susan looked up with fearful eyes. “Oh, I knew it!” she exclaimed, “My arse is starting to look fat already! Everyone will _know_!”

She stood up quickly and craned her neck to stare at her own arse. Upon discovering that this was, in fact, impossible, she immediately turned her back to the mirror, looked over her shoulder, and burst into uncontrollable tears once again.

“I knew iiiiiii-hi-hi-hi-hiiiittttt,” she wailed.

Scrambling to a standing position and looking frantically between the howling Susan and my possible means of escape, I realized the only hope I had was to hide behind the shower curtain. So I did. And I grabbed Hermione’s hand-held shower head as an extra safety precaution, wielding it in front of my being like you’d hold a wooden stake if a vampire were approaching at an alarming velocity.

Hermione the Hellhound came barreling down the hall. I hunkered into the corner with my shower head. Susan kept sniveling at herself in the mirror.

Something hit the doorframe with a bang and I nearly whimpered. All was silent for a moment until:

“Hermione, my arse looks faaaaat!” Susan said. I rolled my eyes, and I had a feeling Hermione probably did the same.

“No it doesn’t,” she said. “Where’s Ginevra?”

Cripes. Real first name.

Don’t tell her Susan. Please, for the love of Flamel, don’t tell her. Tell her I’m in Guatemala. Tell her I entered a convent last night. Tell her I’m hunting Crumple-Horned Snorkacks with Luna in Sweden.

Just don’t, in the name of all that is Magic, tell her I’m-

“In the shower.”

Arse.

Immediately after Susan’s revelation, the simple light blue shower curtain hiding me from view was ripped back violently to expose an _irate_ Hermione. Only she looked more like a banshee having a bad hair day.

This is perhaps the reason I screamed in terror and slammed the shower knob upwards with the heel of my hand. The shower head spit into life and a jet of water shot out of the contraption clutched in my hands and hit Hermione smack in the face.

Inwardly, I laughed in triumph. I’d decided having a hand in demolishing her flat and now shooting a large amount of water up her nose was just about retribution enough for the repercussions of searching for bat shit in a Muggle grocery store.

Outwardly, I stared with wide eyes as her hair slowly became saturated with enough water to lay a bit flatter on her head and her face fixed itself into a grim expression.

I slowly turned the water off. She didn’t move. I didn’t move. Susan did move; she sniffed and pulled out some more toilet paper, staring at Hermione and I with a curious expression, like she was observing a garden gnome playing a game of hop-scotch.

Carefully, I placed the shower head back in its holder and scratched the corner of my eyebrow, watching Hermione carefully.

Still she hadn’t moved.

I thought this was probably a bad thing. Probably it meant she was figuring a way to murder me without getting sent to Azkaban for it.

The frightening part about this thought was that I had no doubt she could. Despite her shortcomings in communicational skills when sending friends on grocery runs, she was still a very clever girl.

She sucked in a deep breath and opened her eyes slowly. I cringed and backed further into the corner of the shower. She was obviously not a happy hippogriff.

“Drunk,” she said, “You got me _drunk_.”

I widened my eyes in indignation and scrambled out of the corner. “I did not!” I exclaimed, “That was Harry’s fault! He’s the one-”

“Quiet!” Hermione shouted, and I shut my mouth due to the expression of deep evil on her face. She nodded in satisfaction at my reaction.

“You got me drunk,” she continued, ignoring my sputters of denial, “destroyed my couch-“

“You said you hated the couch!”

“Ruined my potion-”

“I didn’t even touch your potion!”

“Supplied me with a need for new wallpaper-”

“Luna was launching the slime, not me!”

“And in your incompetence brought me _mascara_ instead of _guano_!”

This last statement ignited the famed Weasley temper and I let out a roar that could have easily rivaled Hermione’s Hellhound roar from the living room earlier that morning.

She didn’t bat an eyelash. Just continued to glare at me fiercely. I glared right back.

“You neglected to _mention_ that guano was actually _bat shit_!” I told her fiercely.

She clenched her fists. “I thought any person capable of any form of coherent thought could figure that out considering we used the ingredient in our Potions classes for _seven years straight_!”

I sputtered at her. “Excuse me? _Excuse_ me? I hate to inform you Hermione, but not everyone’s an _insufferable know-it-all_ like you!”

Susan gasped at my insult and glued her eyes to Hermione to watch her reaction. Hermione’s eyes had widened at my insult and she now looked dangerously close to self-combustion. I smiled in smug victory and folded my arms across my chest, raising an eyebrow to invite her to think of an insult even coming near the caliber of my own.

“At _least_ ,” she finally proclaimed, “I have a _man_ in my life!”

Susan and I gasped at the same time, scandalized. Hermione smiled smugly and wiped her hands on the front of her robes.

Luna walked past the bathroom door backwards again, carrying Susan’s mallet over her shoulder. She was humming a military march under her breath brightly.

All three of us stared at her. She smiled and waved at us happily, disappearing past the side of the door frame.

I cleared my throat.

“Um, I…” I started, “I suppose I could have been a little more agreeable at the fitting…”

Hermione nodded and cleared her throat as well. “I um…I suppose I could have been a little more clear about what guano is…”

I nodded. She nodded. Susan burst into tears.

“You two are so _stupid_ ,” she said. She stomped out of the bathroom, hauling her toilet paper with her. Hermione sighed dejectedly and watched as the toilet paper roll spun furiously as Susan walked down the hall, finally reaching the end and breaking off, the last white sheet trailing around the corner.

“What _happened_ last night?” she finally asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably. “Um,” I said, “Well, Harry sent me this bottle of Doc Herbert’s Flaming Firewhiskey since everyone was attacking me with slime and I think we all got a little…trashed.”

Hermione looked at me with bloodshot eyes. “A _little_ trashed?” she said, “I feel like I’ve been bowled over by a hippogriff.”

I smiled and patted her on the back. “See, that’s called a hangover, Hermy dear. It’s what you get when you step out of the box and drink _actual_ alcohol instead of just Butterbeer.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and shrugged my hand off her shoulder. “I know what a hangover is, Ginny,” she said, moving out of the bathroom door. I scrambled out of the shower and followed her.

“Where are we going?”

“The kitchen,” Hermione said, straightening a picture of us hanging in her hall. I smiled at the picture, taken the summer after Harry defeated Voldemort when Hermione and I became so close, and threw an arm around her shoulders.

“I love you Hermy,” I told her.

“Don’t call me that. And I know, that’s why you’re going to help me with my potion.”

I nodded. “Alright. What sort of potion is this?”

We stepped into the kitchen and Hermione deftly conjured a blue flame beneath the cauldron on her counter. “One I thought of a week or two ago. It’s for Fred and George.”

I paused in the act of yanking her potions knife out of the far wall where she had impaled it the night before. “Fred and George?”

Hermione began skinning a shrivelfig with a separate knife. “Yes. It should keep them manageable at the wedding.”

I stared at her for a moment before grinning widely. “How manageable?”

A slight smile tugged at the right corner of her lips. “Very manageable.”

I laughed and yanked the knife from the wall. “It’s times like these I remember why you’re my best friend.”

She rolled her eyes and told me to start decapitating caterpillars. I obliged as she went to tell Luna and Susan to start cleaning up her flat or else. She returned shortly with the bag of mascara, proclaiming that she was sure it wouldn’t do _too_ much harm and digging out a teaspoon of the black goo. Upon dropping the mascara into the potion, the contents of the cauldron hissed and bubble and finally settled upon turning a dark greenish-brown color.

I wrinkled my nose at it, “Is it supposed to be that color?”

Hermione looked at it. “Not exactly,” she said. “It’s supposed to be light blue.”

I raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged. “It’ll have to do,” she said, filling two vials with the foul concoction in a businesslike manner.

I was euphorically happy I’d managed to get away from her bad side.

The next hour or so was spent cleaning Hermione’s flat and hauling her sofa out to the curb to be picked up by the Muggle garbage men. I spent most of the time vanishing feathers and various charred articles of…various charred…things, and was just about to finish up when I spotted the empty bottle of Firewhiskey peeking out from beneath Luna’s giant bowl of green slime.

My eyes narrowed.

“Hey Hermione?” I called. She looked up from scourgifying her carpet. “Do you mind if I pay a visit to our dear friend Harry?” I asked her, bending to pick the bottle up from the floor.

She narrowed her eyes at the bottle and nodded. “Certainly,” she said, turning back to the carpet. “And do remind him that the rehearsal for the rehearsal dinner is tonight at seven and that if I find out he’s fed Ron any of that god-awful stuff I shall strangle him with his own tongue.”

I grinned and popped out of her apartment to Harry and Ron’s flat door. I reached up to the doorknocker, preparing to knock, when I suddenly caught a reflection of myself in the brass handle in front of me.

I was still an exploded green chicken from hell.

I grinned and knocked loudly, stepping over to hide to the side of his door.

A groan followed by loud crash came from his hallway followed by a string of distinctly impolite terminology and the doorknob rattled a bit before the door swung inward and a hoarse voice croaked, “Ya?”

I grinned once more and then jumped in front of a very disheveled looking Harry Potter and screamed, “DEEEEEAAAATTTTHHHH!”

Harry’s blood-shot, half-opened eyes widened a considerable amount as he screamed, “BLOODY WHA!” and tripped backwards over the coat rack I’d heard him knock over, sprawling to the floor on his back.

I smiled smugly in satisfaction and stepped into his flat, not bothering to shut the door. I stepped over his legs and leaned down, placing the empty bottle of Firewhiskey on his now heaving chest.

“You’ll notice that _I’m_ still standing,” I said, patting his cheek and sniggering at his wide eyes as I stepped over his head and walked down the hall to his living room. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your bathroom for a moment,” I called over my shoulder. “I need to powder my nose.”

I passed through the living room on the way to the bathroom and saw Ron sprawled on their couch, snoring loudly, a bottle of the very same Firewhiskey Harry had given me hanging limply from the fingers of his right hand.

I smiled evilly. “Oh, and by the way Harry dearest,” I called as I stepped into the bathroom. I turned and looked at the man now picking himself up from the floor and staring at the empty bottle of Firewhiskey now in his hands. He looked up at my call.

I smiled at him. “Hermione wanted me to remind you that the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner is tonight.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“And she says that if you’ve fed any of,” here I gave my best impression of Hermione in her stern mode, “ ‘that god-awful stuff’ to Ronald Bilius she’ll strangle you with your own tongue.”

I blew the now sheet-white Harry a kiss and glanced pointedly at the incapacitated Ron before shutting the bathroom door with a click.

I waited until I heard Harry scramble over to Ron and smack him on the face saying, “Mate! Mate, wake up! Hermione’s going to _kill_ me!” before beaming happily at my reflection in the mirror and turning on the hot water in the sink in order to rid myself of green skin and feathers.

I took the bar of soap sitting by the sink and wrote in large letters on the bathroom mirror “Boy-Who-Won’t-Live-Much-Longer: 0…Girl-Who-Will: 1.”

Damn, I was good at this game.

**_A/N: Looooonnnggg chappie, I know. Tell me what you think._ **

**_Review, loo-hoos!_ **

**_-h_**


	10. Kippers

_**A/N: I'm so updating in less than a month. Enjoy, loo-hoos!** _

_**-h** _

**_Disclaimer: No._ **

                                                           Kippers

                                                         _For laughter,_

_Because you helped chase away the grief._  
    


   
There’s this theory I’ve developed over the years due to various eclectic occurrences I’ve witnessed, and it goes as such:

If you open the metaphorical can, you will be greeted by the metaphorical worms. An extension to the theory involves them sliming you sufficiently, and in some of the most extreme cases even devouring your head.

This theory goes hand in hand with another one I happened to create on the day I completely annihilated Harry’s ego as well as his bathroom towel:

If you open the metaphorical door, you will be greeted by the metaphorical food-bearing Harry. Only neither one will be entirely metaphorical.

“I suppose you didn’t drink that entire bottle by yourself.”

My hand froze on the handle of the bathroom door I’d just opened for only a second before I lifted it to aid my other hand in wiping my face with Harry’s now sufficiently green bathroom towel. I brought the towel down to my neck and looked at him, opening my mouth to make a witty retort. The metaphorical worms lounging in my throat consumed the retort, however, and proceeded to digest them and convert them into a much less glorifying comment. 

“Are those kippers?” 

It wasn’t exactly what I’d meant to say, but it _was_ a query of utmost importance. He happened to be holding a dinner plate with a small mountain of steaming food atop it. 

Harry speared one of the kippers in question with his fork and stuck it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Ignoring my question, he instead pointed his fork towards the ceiling as he stared past the side of my head with his brow furrowed.

“Because I’m fairly certain that if you’d had that entire bottle by yourself, I’d be holding your head above the toilet right now.”

My stomach growled as I watched him spear another kipper and pop it into his mouth. He scooped some eggs onto his fork as he chewed and glanced back at me, speaking around the food in his mouth. 

“Don’t you agree?”

I started to nod my head absently, transfixed by the smell wafting from the plate of food in Harry’s hands, and only managed to stop myself when I saw his fork stab the last kipper. It disappeared into the depths of his mouth. I blinked.

“You ate the last kipper,” I mentioned, staring at the now much less full plate.

Harry scooped up the last of his eggs, piled them on top of the half-piece of toast he had left, and ate it all in one bite. He chewed it adequately, flicking his fork so that it turned back into his wand with a small _pip_ and then pointed it at his plate. The dish floated down the hallway and into the doorway of the kitchen, tinkling slightly as it settled between the various utensils littering Ron and Harry’s kitchen sink.

Harry swallowed and looked at me, shoving his wand into the back pocket of his trousers. The action induced an internal debate in my head on whether or not I wished upon him the unfortunate occurrence of losing a buttock as punishment for eating in front of a hungry girl. I’d always rather _liked_ his buttocks. It might be unfortunate if he _lost_ one… 

“Of course I didn’t eat the last kipper,” he said, “That would be terribly rude.”

Both buttocks were safe, then. Can’t say I was disappointed…

Perking up at his comment, I made to scourgify his towel and apologize for the writing on the bathroom mirror if it meant receiving food in return. I stopped, however, when Harry turned away from me and walked over to Ron, who was now sprawled on the floor of their living room. One of Ron’s legs was draped over the coffee table and his left cheek was pressed against the corner of the sofa. I stood with the towel hanging limply from my left hand and my wand poised in my right, watching the scene that unfolded in despair.

Harry flicked his wand at the kitchen again and deftly caught the towering plate of food that came zooming toward him at the action. He held it above Ron’s face and wafted the steam emitting from it towards my thoroughly hung-over brother’s nose.

“Mate,” he said, “kippers.”

Ron’s eyes snapped open at this and he grabbed Harry by his collar. “Kippers?” he croaked. “Food?”

Prying Ron’s fingers from his shirt, Harry nodded and placed the plate of food on the coffee table. He grabbed the wand poking out of Ron’s pocket and flicked it, replacing the smooth wood with the prongs of a fork. Placing the fork in Ron’s hand, he stood up and pointed to the food.

“Eat,” he ordered. It didn’t take long for Ron to obey. 

I watched my brother shoveling forkfuls of delicious-smelling food into his gob and whimpered, cursing all the metaphorical worms to hell. Harry looked at me with a mock-surprised expression.

“Oh, did you want some too?”

In synchronization, as if either end of a broomstick were attached to each of my elbows, I lowered the ruined towel to my side and swung my wand to point directly at Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” I said calmly, “have you ever wondered what would happen if you took a deer carcass away from a hungry dragon?”

Harry’s hands crept slowly up to float to either side of his head, palms facing outward. 

“No, actually. I, um, I haven’t.”

Something of a wicked grin spread across my face as I advanced on him. “Shame,” I said, “it’s rarely much fun to learn about something that doesn’t interest you.”

I have to say that the wide, arcing sweep of my arm over my head in preparation for a spell that only took a small flick of the wrist was quite impressive. Borderline awe-inspiring, I reckon. Very dramatic.

Most likely quite terrifying as well, if one were to use Harry’s reaction to it. He’d stumbled backwards a few steps, his arms remaining suspended on either side of his head as his eyes widened terrifically and he stuttered:

“Wait a second, Gin. Let’s be rational here. Why don’t you just STOP ACTING LIKE A BARBARIAN, RON!”

Little blue wisps of smoke sputtered out the end of my wand lethargically as my wrist stopped in the middle of its flick. I was staring at Harry blankly, unable to comprehend the high-pitched, bossy tone that had emitted from his vocal box, let alone the actual meaning behind the words.

Harry seemed to be having identical difficulties to mine, as his chin snapped backwards in bewilderment at the high pitch issuing from his mouth, and his hands flew to grab at his chest, his eyes following them as if he was searching for the creature that had voiced its opinion so loudly. Upon discovering that there was in fact nothing there aside from his navy colored T-shirt, he looked up to me in utter astonishment.

“Good Gobstones, Harry. What in the _hell_ was that?” 

His eyes still wide in bafflement, Harry opened his mouth to speak.

“For Merlin’s sake, _please_ Ron, chew with your mouth _closed_! We’re about to have our _wedding_!”

Ron sat bent over his plate, forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, gaping at the fireplace in absolute mystification.

“Wuh uff da haff foodoo fif uniffugh?” he said, a bit of egg flying out of his mouth and landing on the hearth in front of Hermione’s head. She peered at it in disgust from her perch above the logs.

“Well considering we’ll be _dining_ at the _end of the table_ where everyone can _see_ us, I’d say it has a whole lot to do with anything!”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief upon discovering that the voice was not his own. I stared at Hermione’s irate, floating head in shock. How she could interpret anything my brother said while in the presence of food…

Ron stared at his fiancé’s head for a moment before turning back to his food and bringing the fork the rest of the way to his mouth. 

“Vuh wugn kruh.” 

Harry took an almost indiscernible step backwards and shot the side of Ron’s head a somewhat pitying look. Glancing from him, to the fireplace, to my brother inhaling toast coated in marmalade, I did the same, figuring Harry had more experience in the “Ron and Hermione Throat-Ripping Row” game. I wondered if he’d said something so offensive that she might tear his head from his body, thereby canceling the wedding and my subsequent appearance in the illustrious pannermans. 

I prayed fervently to every single deity I thought might possibly exist.

If it weren’t for the fact that Hermione’s head was already bathed in a wreath of flames due to its travel through the Floo network, I imagine it would have caught fire quite spectacularly at Ron’s incomprehensible statement. As it was, the flames caressing the logs in the hearth intensified noticeably and caused a small explosion as one of the logs burst into a shower of sparks. Harry and I took another step backwards.

“They won’t _care_!?”

Ron’s Adam’s apple bobbed terrifically as he swallowed and stared at Hermione’s head burning in the fireplace. He set his fork down slowly and sat up from his plate. Immediately, I collapsed onto my hands and knees and crawled around to the back of the couch, ignoring Harry’s surprised glance.

Ron spoke from above me on the couch, proclaiming, “That’s not what I said.” 

I rolled my eyes at the response and crept closer to the edge of the sofa, peeking around the corner and viewing the very edge of Ron’s half-eaten breakfast. I slid onto my stomach and crept forward.

“Oh really? Well then what _did_ you say, Ron?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably as he frantically though of an answer and I took the opportunity to duck my head around the corner and stare at Hermione from beside my brother’s nervously twitching right foot. She glanced at me in momentary distraction from Ron’s floundering and raised an eyebrow half a centimeter. 

Pointing to the plate of food above me, I mouthed, “Distract him.” She nodded almost imperceptibly and went back to watching Ron flounder.

“I said…I said, er…I said that you’re, um…I said that…that _you’re right_ …dear?”

Hermione looked at him shrewdly and sniffed. “You’re lying, but I don’t have time to talk about that right now. Go get a quill and parchment, I’m going to give you a list of what you need tonight so you won’t forget anything.”

Nodding frantically, Ron quickly got up from the sofa and hurried down the hall in search of a quill and parchment. I jumped up and sat in his place, grabbing the fork and shoveling a pile of eggs into my mouth. I closed my eyes in rapture and scooped more food onto the fork, scarfing down the entire plate in twenty-eight and a quarter seconds flat.

Hermione looked at me blandly. “That was disgusting,” she said.

I put the fork down and got up to walk back towards Harry. “I haven’t eaten in a day and a half because of your stupid pannermans, so I think I have a well and proper excuse,” I told her over my shoulder. She looked about to respond when she spotted Harry to my left.

“Harry James _Potter_ ,” she growled.

He swallowed and brought a hand to the back of his head. “Um…hiya Hermione.”

“ _What_ are you hiding behind your back?”

The color left Harry’s face immediately, and I leaned back to see what he was so ineffectually hiding. Straightening, I grinned evilly and looked at him with polite inquiry written across my face.

“What _are_ you hiding, Harry? It wouldn’t have anything to do with…oh, I don’t know… _inebriation_ maybe?”

Shifting uncomfortably and fumbling for his wand with his free hand, Harry shook his head vigorously in the negative. “N-no. Of course- of course not! I wouldn’t…never…I don’t have…”

Therein occurred a sequence of highly chaotic events which I took no part in instigated whatsoever.

Well, perhaps besides extending my leg to my left and then shoving Harry in the back, thereby causing him to pitch forward, the empty glass bottle of Doc Herbert’s Flaming Firewhiskey sailing over his head and catapulting towards the entrance to the kitchen.

Six pairs of eyes followed it as it tumbled through the air in a graceless arc before suddenly changing direction quite abruptly due to the fact that a large, freckled, hungover head stood firmly in its path.

“I’ve got the qui-OW! Bloody _fuck_!”

The empty bottle of Firewhiskey crashed to the floor and rolled beneath the coat rack. It’s a tribute to its durability that it did not shatter upon the hardwood floor, though probably the durability had a lot to do with the current state of my brother. Collapsing to his knees, he curled in a ball and clutched at his right eye, whimpering.

“Ow, the headache, ooohhhhhhh the headache. Eye, hurts, oowwwww hurting eye. Oh pain, pain pain pain…”

The room was silent aside from Ron’s pathetic whimpering, me watching the scene in gloriously amused astonishment, wondering at how my simple action caused such lovely chaos. Harry stared at Ron from his sprawled position on the floor in despair, obviously feeling he had little time left in this plane of existence. 

Hermione exploded another log.

Then she said, “Harry, if Ron shows up tonight with even an _inkling_ of a black eye, I am holding you responsible and exacting punishment accordingly.”

A small _pop_ later, and she was gone. Laughter pealed through the room as I clutched my knees and reflected upon the hilarity of the situation. Eventually, I controlled myself and straightened, clearing my throat and stepping over Harry’s head.

“Well, I think I’ll grab a Butterbeer from your fridge and be on my way.” I bent down to Ron’s whimpering form and pried his hands from his eye, peering closely. Apparently, the opening at the top of the bottle had nailed him perfectly around his eye, as there was now a rapidly darkening purple circle framing it. I sucked air in between my teeth. “That’ll be a nasty one, I reckon,” I said, letting go of his hands and wandering into their kitchen. I grabbed a Butterbeer and stepped back out into the hall, popping the cap and taking a swig as I observed the still unmoving Harry.

Smirking, I stepped over him again to enter his bathroom, erase the soapy ‘1’ beside my title and replace it with a ‘2.’ I smiled smugly and stepped back into the hall.

“Well then, I’ll just be-”

A familiar _pop_ was heard as Hermione’s head once again appeared in the fireplace.

“Ginny," she said, "Madam Malkin’s just owled to say the bridesmaid’s dresses are ready. Could you get them for me?”

She didn’t wait for me to respond before she popped away. I stared at the fireplace. Harry sniggered and peered up at me through his spectacles.

“Do be careful of the Inflatable Bras, ya?” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose as he smirked at me.

I made a face at him before muttering, “Four eyes,” and apparating away.

The streets of Diagon Alley were teeming with woolen cloak-wearing mothers taking advantage of post-Christmas sales. Shivering, I pulled my cloak tighter around my body and wished I hadn’t left my gloves and scarf at Hermione’s. I pushed past a bald man inspecting his reflection in the storefront window of Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occassions and took a deep breath before pushing open the door. The tinkling of the door chime caught the attention of the small form of Madam Malkin reading a piece of parchment behind her counter. A glare was firmly directed at me.

“Stay,” she ordered, and turned her back to me, disappearing into the back of the store. I made a face at her and turned to examine a mannequin sporting a cloak that kept changing colors every few seconds. The sign above it proclaimed it was for the “daring that only ever enter with a bang!” I thought bitterly that a coconut bra, hula skirt, and fruit hat would work just as well, if not better. 

The bell above the door tinkled again and I turned to see the bald man I’d passed on the way in enter the store. He glanced around distractedly before his eyes landed on me.

“H-hello,” he stuttered, twisting his hands nervously, “I’m l-looking for a M-madam M-Malkin pl-please?”

I smiled warmly at the poor man, “She’s in the back. She should be out shortly.”

The man nodded and shuffled over to stand hesitantly by the counter. “Th-th-thank you,” he muttered.

I smiled again. “No problem.”

I watched him stand nervously beside the counter for a few moments before deciding to be a kind soul and attempt to put him more at ease. “So what are you shopping for today?”

The man jumped slightly at my voice and put a hand atop his head as if to hold a hat in place. “P-p-p-p-pardon?” Managing to keep my smile in place, I thought perhaps making conversation with this man wasn’t the best of ideas. 

“I was just asking what you were-”

My sentence was cut off as a mound of lace filled my mouth.

“I’ve placed an Imperturbable Charm on these so you can get them home unharmed. It should last about an hour, so please refrain from mucking about in the streets for that time,” came the sharp voice of Madam Malkin.

I grunted indignantly from behind the swaths of fabric in front of my face and turned to walk from the store, maneuvering my head so I could peek out from between two pannermans. The nervous man by the counter moved quickly out of my path.

“Oh, and I’ve just done your alterations and included the extra undergarment.”

The pannermans closed together as I froze and twisted my head around to face Madam Malkin. “Alterations?” I asked.

She nodded and picked the parchment she’d been reading up from her counter. “Yes, the alterations on your corset. Mr. Potter was kind enough to owl me about it earlier so I could make the necessary changes.”

She put the parchment back down and turned to the small bald man beside her counter, opening her mouth to greet him. I interrupted her.

“Necessary changes?” 

Madam Malkin closed her mouth and turned to stare at me with thin lips. “Yes Miss Weasley, necessary changes.”

I stared at her. “What kind of necessary changes?” She threw a quick glance at the man beside her before huffing irritably and saying, “I would have thought it rather obvious, considering you wish to wear one of the Inflatable Undergarments beneath it,” the nervous man blushed scarlet and looked to his feet while Madam Malkin continued to glare at me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a customer to tend to.”

She turned to the blushing man beside her and began measuring him, asking what exactly he was looking for. He stammered some sort of reply, and shifted nervously as her measuring tape began wrapping around his head.

I gaped for a few moments before suddenly dropping the swaths of lace and velvet to the ground and diving into the middle of them, searching for the cause of the ‘necessary changes.’ It soon revealed itself, being the only neon orange garment in the mountain of clothes, and I picked it up with my thumb and forefinger and held it in front of my face.

“No sodding way,” I breathed, staring at the uninflated bra dangling in front of me in horror. Madam Malkin swept past me, her charge in tow, chattering about the various benefits of a cloak made of Jarvey fur rather than the traditional weasel whilst the man behind her diverted his eyes from the undergarment in my hands and blushed fiercely.

Her voice trailed off as she and the nervous man disappeared behind a rack of various swaths of fabrics, and I stood still staring at the orange bra in my hands.

Suddenly, it inflated.

I yelped and jumped backwards, watching as it fell down into the fabric at my feet and nestled there offensively, mocking me. One single coherent thought passed through my head as I glanced from it to the letter Harry had written Madam Malkin, and that was “ _death_.”

With this in mind, I stalked over to the counter and began rifling through the various papers strewn there. Ignoring catalogs and sweet-smelling parchments advertising an assortment of different fabric types the storeowner might be interested in, I zeroed in on a clipboard holding a thick stack of papers, the cover of which was neatly labeled “Weasley Wedding” in Madam Malkins neat writing.

I grabbed it and shuffled through to a page marked “Groomsmen's Attire.” Smirking, I snagged the quill resting in the inkpot on the corner of the counter and scratched out a few choice measurements under Harry Potter’s name, and carefully fixed them to be appropriately uncomfortable.

Growing up with six brothers, all of whom I’d at some point in time inherited trousers from, had taught me a bit about the suitable length for a male’s inseam.

Placing the quill back in its well in a satisfied manner, I sniffed and flounced over to my pile of bothersome fabric, scooping it up with a huff. The bell tinkled as I backed out of the doorway and cast a last smug glance at the clipboard residing on the counter. I smiled as I plowed through the masses of sale-seeking mothers crowding the streets.

Never underestimate a Weasley, Harry Potter. Your croch will thank you for it.

_'For those who may be confused, an inseam is the measurement that keeps the men from complaining of too little fresh air near their...ehem...nether regions._

_**Not my favorite chapter, I must admit. Bit short.** _

_**Review, yes?** _

**_-h_**   



	11. Tuna Rolls and Loo Cans

**_A/N: And here we have the next chapter!_ **

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**_Hope you enjoy!_ **

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**_-h_ **

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**_Disclaimer: No._ **

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Tuna Rolls and Loo Cans

_For Cath,_

_Who informed me_

_That Brits are more_

_“Roll” or “tissue” people._

_Thanks, papoose._

 

“We need toilet tissue.”

My chin, which was resting on the polished wood of Hermione’s kitchen counter, slipped off the edge and subsequently caused pain to shoot up through my nose and fan out behind my eyes, prickling the back of them so that tears immediately rested above my lower eyelid. The small fingerprint on the shiny surface of the table I’d been examining in my boredom faded from my mind and was replaced by a myriad of curses and torture techniques I could use on Sod and his bleeding laws.

I brought a hand to the base of my nose and looked at Hermione’s blurred form standing in her kitchen doorway. The tears disappeared from my eyes slowly and I squinted at the cardboard brown cylinder she was holding in her hand as if she were the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the empty toilet roll was her gavel. It looked as if she were about to make a damning judgment. Specifically to do with me.

I wasn’t excited.

“Toilet tissue?” I asked, mainly focused on the pain shooting through my nose.

Hermione nodded and flicked the empty toilet tissue roll into the garbage. “Yes,” she said, “Susan used it all.”

“Hmm,” I said, removing my hand from my nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. “Shouldn’t you say that _you_ need toilet tissue? You’re the one who lives here.”

Hermione walked to her sink and began rummaging in the cupboard beneath it. Emerging seconds later with a bottle of Sally Sanitary’s Sterilizing Solution, she bustled over to my table and sprayed the potion on the fingerprint I’d been examining and the mark my nose had made upon its over-zealous meeting with the wooden table.

“No,” she said, as she wiped the table off with a towel and I questioned my brother’s judgment in marrying her, “I should say _we_ , since _we_ have to provide the toilet tissue at the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner.”

She finished cleaning the table and moved back towards her sink. Demonic tendencies are sometimes a habit of mine, and I therefore reached a hand out to replace the fingerprint in a sudden fit of demonism and longing to irk her for no reason.

“Don’t even,” she said from the sink. My hand hovered above the table surface as I stared at the back of her head.

“Dancing Durmstrang,” I said, “are you sure you don’t want to replace McGonagall after she retires next year? You certainly channel her a whole lot.”

Hermione turned and rolled her eyes at me. “Yes. I only have on more year of study before I become an Unspeakable.”

I crossed my legs casually and examined the fingernails of my right hand.

“You know, I never thought being an Unspeakable suited you much.”

Hermione blinked and then frowned. “Why ever not?”

Tilting my head to the side, I glanced over my fingernails at her. “Because you have a tendency to speak an awfully amazing amount.”

The towel Hermione had used to wipe the table arced through the air and draped over my head as she hurled it at me and huffed out the door. Her voice trailed into the room as I grinned impishly at my witty insult behind the towel covering my face.

“Well, I suppose I’ll spare you my tendency to speak so much by sending you to the grocery for the tissue.”

The curve of my mouth flipped upside down as I removed the towel and set it on the table. I pushed back my chair and went to the doorway to the living room. Incidentally, the room was now completely devoid of any traces of our drunken green glop fight aside from the picture Hermione was now straightening.

I sighed. Being Maid of Honor, I’d discovered, was a job quite devoid of any kind of honor-getting. 

“How much should I get?”

“Oh, I’d say about…” Hermione turned from the now-straight picture and scrunched an eye in thought, “fifty or so rolls.”

I stared. “ _Fifty_?”

“Fifty.”

I stared some more. “Hermione, maybe you’re different, but no one urinates that much.”

Hermione huffed. She liked huffing, I’d noticed. Probably she was somehow related to the Big Bad Werewolf.

Har har har. Har har…hee, ha. Merlin, I amuse myself sometimes.

Yes well, Hermione huffed (meehee, ha ha, snort) and moved toward her bedroom at the end of the hall. I followed.

“I’m serious, Hermione. A dragon with diarrhea doesn’t even need that much toilet paper.”

Hermione looked at me in disgust, her face squishing up almost as much as her cat’s.

“Don’t try to say it isn’t true,” I said.

She shook her head slightly before turning back to her armoire and pulling out a plastic covered set of light blue robes I’d helped her shop for. Against my will, mind you. It was another one of those non-honor-getting quirks of being Most Momentous Maid. 

“Well, we have to have toilet tissue for the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner, the rehearsal dinner itself, _and_ the wedding. And I suppose the reception, if you count that separate from the wedding.”

I leaned against the doorframe as she tapped the shoe-organizer in her closet with her wand briskly. It whirred and clicked and finally gave one great, shuddering gulp before it belched and spat out pair of matching heels. 

“Are the people at this place providing _anything_?”

Hermione turned sharply, “Not ‘this place,’ Ginny. It’s called History Hall. _History Hall_ , and you’d better not end up at the wrong place.”

How could I end up at the wrong place? She’d only dragged me to that stupid Hall fifteen times to make sure it was the best one. How it _couldn’t_ be the best one was unexplained, as it was a giant house with the ability to mold itself to any era you wished. It was practically orgasmic for Hermione.

I waved a hand absently, “History Hall, right. Got it. You still don’t need fifty rolls of toilet paper, though. It’s not even that big a wedding.”

“I like to be prepared.”

As if to prove her point she flicked her wand and put a check beside “robes, shoes, handbag, extra socks just in case” on the list that had just appeared floating in front of her head.

She was wearing strappy sandals. There was no way she’d need “extra socks just in case.”

“Right well, I’ll be sure to bring the fifty or so rolls of toilet tissue before everyone gets there.”

“Thirty minutes before, I need you make sure all the notecards are labeled correctly.”

“I already labeled all the notecards.”

“I need you to double check.”

“I already _triple_ checked, Hermione.”

“Well then quadruple check.”

I sighed and decided to give up the argument before she decided she should probably make everyone a nametag as well as a note-card instructing them where to stand at what time. Probably I’d have to write out every person’s name with side-notes stating their date and time of birth, astrological symbol, generally unusual tendencies, and any curious allergies with which they may be afflicted. Just in case.

And so it was I found myself standing before the only place in all London I could buy fifty rolls of toilet tissue and probably not deplete the entire stock. The most foreboding glass sliding doors in all England: The Muggle grocery. 

It was ominous, even in the daytime, and I watched as a woman bustled out of the doors hurriedly, a wailing toddler squirming in her arms and snotting on her jacket as she pushed an overflowing cart to her car. The doors slid shut behind her slowly, staring at me and daring me to enter with large round eyes that menacingly proclaimed, “All Poultry, 50 percent Off!”

I straightened my shoulders and walked toward them purposefully. 

“Ya? Well I’m not a poultry!” I proclaimed as I marched through the opening doors. An old lady slowly wheeling her cart out of the doors nodded as I passed her.

“That’s the spirit, dearie,” she said. I inclined my head in appreciation and moved towards the left of the store, away from the half priced poultry and towards the shampoo and toiletries aisle.

The toilet tissue came in plastic wrappings with four rolls a piece, and I had to stand in front of the display for a good thirty seconds doing the math. Four into fifty, four into fifty…carry the on--oh bollocks, there was a remainder. I hated remainders.

Where was a quill when you needed one? 

I decided Hermione might have a hemorrhoid (let’s snort and laugh at the witty humor again, shall we?) if I got less than the proclaimed fifty, so I began removing loo rolls from the rack and stuffing them beneath my arms. I quickly discovered this plan would not come to fruition, considering the fact I was rather short, therefore possessed rather short appendages, and therefore could fit only two packets of toilet tissue beneath each arm.

I knew enough math to realize that four packages of loo roll was an insufficient number for my requirements.

“Bugger,” I muttered, setting the toilet tissue on the ground. I stared at the shelf before me for a bit before finally sighing and removing packets of toilet tissue until there were thirteen packages, fifty two rolls of toilet tissue, piled on the ground in front of me. Incidentally, it emptied the entire shelf of toilet tissue, and I felt a bit guilty about that, considering that some poor Muggle would probably really need some toilet tissues and there would be none left for him or her. But the guilt I felt about this hypothetical Muggle was thwarted by the terror I felt about what Hermione would do if I brought back too few loo rolls.

“Ah, effing hell,” I mumbled. Then I extended my arms in front of me, curved at the elbows as if I were carrying an invisible barrel of mulled mead, and collapsed on top of the pile of loo rolls. I squirmed there for a bit, gathering all the packages to me, and then I squatted, grunted, and stood up.

I was like a giant walking cauliflower. The loo roll packages were piled in my arms, balancing precariously on top of my forearms and shoulders. A corner of one of them slid down the pile to squash against my nose, and I had to quickly raise my mouth and bite into it to keep it from falling. Florescent lights blinded me as I raised my head up to catch another package sliding towards my face under my chin. The entire pile teetered precariously for a few seconds, and I squinched my eyes shut tight, praying none would fall. Crinkling and the thin sound of plastic sliding against plastic could be heard as the pile settled in my arms, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

And then I breathed a sigh of frustration. 

Ceiling. Tiled ceiling. White. With wires extending from it at even intervals with bright tubes of light hanging from them.

It was all I could see. Besides toilet tissue. And what I really needed to see was the actual ground in front of me.

You know, in order that the guests of the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner, the rehearsal dinner itself, the wedding, and the reception of the wedding had plenty of soft, quilted white sheets with which to wipe their posteriors sufficiently.

“Mer, erring ‘ell,” I muffled. You’ve probably deduced that this is what the phrase “effing hell” sounds like when spoken through a mouthful of loo roll.

I glared at the white tiled ceiling above me. Then I poked a foot out, swept it out to the left and right like a blind man does with his cane, and took a step forward. Then I did it again. And again. And again. 

I was making some serious progre-

“Eep!”

Someone on the other side of the mountain of loo rolls toppled to the ground. They knocked into a shelf behind them and _that_ toppled to the ground. My mountain of loo rolls swayed precariously and _I_ toppled to the ground. And then the loo rolls toppled on top of me.

All, that is, except for the one still firmly fixed between my teeth.

“Meh, erring _‘ell_!” I said.

“Ungh,” said the Muggle I’d knocked to the floor.

I spat the loo roll package out of my mouth and began crawling up through the small mountain on top of me. I removed a package from the top of the pile and poked my head out of the hole it made.

“I am _so sor_ -” I stopped and gaped at the wrinkly lady sprawled on the ground two feet in front of me, her gray wig hanging precariously from the tip of her nose.

“ _You_!” she said, her wig fluttering off her nose as she spoke.

My eyes widened. “ _You!_ ” I said, lifting an arm from the loo roll mountain and pointing accusingly at her.

“ _YOU_!” we said together.

There commenced a staring contest.

There ceased a staring contest because our eyes began to water painfully and a loo roll package toppled down the mountain and landed at her feet, distracting us both.

The Wheatie Stealer glanced from the loo roll at her feet, to the topple shelf behind her, to her fallen wig, to the empty shelf where the loo rolls were supposed to be behind me. She narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” I told her, glaring from beneath the loo roll packages.

The Wheatie Stealer slowly stood up, retrieved her fallen wig, and fixed it determinedly on top of her nearly-bald head.

“Watch me,” she hissed, and she bent down, grabbed the loo roll package, and took off towards the cash registers, shuffling as fast as she could and raising her middle finger behind her back as she went.

I gaped. And then I snarled.

And then I pelted a loo roll at the Wheatie Stealer’s demonic little head.

“Aiieeeee!!!” she screeched as she face planted onto the slick tiled ground of the grocery and slid into a tastefully-displayed mountain of tuna cans. The tuna wobbled for a moment like a giant drunk Hagrid, before collapsing around the Wheatie Stealer. There was no movement from within the cans of tuna.

I panicked slightly.

“Shit, I killed her. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.”

I hurried over to the tuna cans and knelt down in front of them, removing a can of tuna from the edge of the pile. There was a foot underneath it clad in old-lady shoes.

“Oh _shit_ ,” I said, staring at the shoe.

“Oh shit is right,” said a voice from above me, and when I looked up, there was the Wheatie Stealer, sitting up in the pile of tuna and looking at me examining her shoe.

My anger came back once I discovered she was still alive. I found myself only slightly disappointed that this was the case.

I insulted her.

“Your shoes,” I told her, “are _ugly_.”

Plucking my package of loo rolls from her hand, I stood up, whipped around, and marched off towards my fallen mountain of posterior-wiping tissue.

“Hey carrot-head!” she yelled from behind me.

I narrowed my eyes and wheeled around to snarl at her.

“Hope you like tuna,” she said, smiling at me demonically.

I wasn’t quick enough to duck away from the flying projectile of death, otherwise known as a well-aimed can of tuna. 

And _that_ , ladies and gentleprats, is how I, Ginevra Molly Weasley, ended up in a Muggle prison two hours before my best friend’s rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner, conversing with a woman who called herself Bubba and a police officer who called himself Lionel.

**_A/N: Bit shorter, yes, but it was actually a transition chapter._ **

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**_Up next: Well, you’ll just have to see, won’t you?_ **

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**_I will tell you, however, that the next chapter is most definitely the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner. Probably. I think it'll span over Ginny's prison time as well as the rehearsal of the rehear--you know, it gets kinda annoying typing all that out._ ** _**  
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**_Review, loo-hoos!_ **

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**_-h_**


	12. Sodding Sod and his Sodding Laws of Sodiness

**_A/N: Well, here’s the next chapter! Long one, loo-hoos. Twenty pages on Word, aren’t you proud?_ **

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**_Read and review!_ **

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**_-h_ **

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**_Disclaimer: I disclaim everything except Lionel and Bubba._ **

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[center]Sodding Sod and his Sodding Laws of Sodiness  


_For orders to clean my room.  
Because without you,  
I’d have nothing to procrastinate for  
By writing another chapter of Cheese Wheels._ [/center]

“You _attacked_ an old lady?”

Lionel the police officer leaned back in his creaking, obviously strained wooden chair and stared at me through the thick metal bars of my prison cell. Emptied cans of tuna littered the top of his desk, the yellow fish juice left congealing on the bottom, along with various crushed soft drink cans and the occasional stack of food-stained papers. 

My mother would have a seizure if she saw it. And then go in to cardiac arrest. And then return from the dead to nag poor, fat Lionel until he burned every single piece of grossness on his desk and scoured the wood with three bottles of Sally’s Sanitary Solution.

That, rather than anything else (such as the desire to remain in possession of my head), was the reason I had not used my one fellytone call to dial the number of the Burrow. 

Why did we have a Muggle fellytone at the Burrow, you wonder? We’d gotten one during the War. In case we ended up in situations such as the one in which I found myself currently engaged. As of right then, it had never been used. Mainly because I was the only one who was _forced_ to learn how to use the thing, but also because getting into trouble in the War usually constituted one of three things:

1) Being in a state of forced captivity.

2) Being unconsciousness.

Or 3) Being otherwise incapable of using a tone. In particular being dead and/or slightly to mostly incapacitated due to loss of limbs or other such grievous states of being.

So the whole fiasco of purchasing the tone and hiding all the magical objects in the house and receiving numerous lectures from Mum before the Muggle ekeltrician came and then, of course, _obliviating_ the ekeltrician because Gred and Forge managed to set his mustache aflame, was really quite pointless.

Dad, however, would probably be thrilled if I called the tone and asked for him to come pay the bail, getting to see a Muggle jail _and_ talk on the tone _and_ handle Muggle currency. Mum, however…

Well, like I said, she’d probably die upon seeing Lionel’s desk, and I didn’t really want her to die, seeing as how she’s my Mum. And I love her. And occasionally she feeds me when I have no money. Which is a lot, considering I’m a mere intern Healer and I get the worst hours imaginable and the lowest pay St. Mungo’s can get away with. However, being the friend of the three most famous war-heroes of all time has it’s perks, and since two of them were joining in hell-holey matrimony, I was spending a luxurious two weeks off from work.

In a prison cell.

Which wasn’t _exactly_ how I’d originally planned it.

I was losing hope of being rescued at any time in the near future, seeing as how I didn’t know any other tone numbers besides the Burrow’s, and so I figured I might have to try to talk my way out of my predicament.

Talk. Not yell. Which was bad because usually in the sorts of situations where I’m not particularly happy, I like to yell a lot. And being in a prison cell with a she-man named Bubba and a mountain of loo rolls does not make me particularly happy.

In fact, it rather makes me particularly _un_ happy.

So when Lionel accused me of attacking an old lady, I refrained from telling him to kindly let me out of the cell before I was obliged to shove one of his empty tuna cans up his arse. Which would hurt. Sharp edges, soft organ tissue, you know? If I was particularly malicious, I could describe the tearing of the soft organ tissue, being that I knew all about it due to Healer training and such.

Instead, I chose to be diplomatic about it. “Well, I didn’t exactly _attack_ her, per say, it was more of a…noticeable persuasion to return my loo roll package.” 

Bubba the she-man grunted from the left corner of the cell. I couldn’t tell if the grunt was a laugh or a growl, so I scooted a few more meters away from her. Lionel snorted and leaned back further in his chair.

I felt sorry for Lionel’s chair. Lionel was fat because he ate so many cans of tuna at such regular intervals. I was fairly certain tuna juice even seeped out of his pores. 

“You threw an innocent old lady into a tastefully displayed mountain of tuna cans.”

I _did not_. 

Well, partially perhaps.

…Maybe just slightly. But I still took objection at his word choice.

“First of all, that old lady is in no way innocent, Mr. Lionel policeman, sir. She is a blatant stealer of other people’s loo rolls,” I said, ticking off my objections on my fingers, “Second of all, I didn’t throw _her_ into the tuna can mountain, I threw a package of loo rolls _at_ her and she _landed_ in the tuna can mountain. There’s a difference”

I stopped talking for a bit, looking at Lionel’s unamused face. His fat, soggy looking lips were curved downwards in the corners and he was frowning so deeply his eyebrows looked as if they were contemplating jumping right off his face and attacking his eyeballs. 

Against my better judgment and because I have about as much control over my mouth as Fleur the Flirtacious has over the amount of phlegm perpetually residing in her throat, I continued speaking. 

“And third of all, that tuna can mountain was _not_ tastefully displayed. You can’t tastefully display cans of tuna. It’s impossible. Because tuna doesn’t _taste_ good, and if it doesn’t _taste_ good you can’t make a _tasteful_ display of it.”

Stupid, you say? How do you figure that? 

My statement seemed to hang in the air for a bit, molding both Lionel’s and Bubba’s faces into two identical masks of irate indignation. Lionel, in particularly, looked a bit like a pit bull who’s dead animal carcass has been withheld from him. Bubba just looked like a she-man who’s been deeply insulted because someone called her a she-man.

Apparently, both Lionel and Bubba were great lovers of tuna and great haters of loo-roll-pelting red-heads who only want to inflict justice upon the Wheatie Stealers of the world.

I reckoned that meant I was pretty much a grindylow out of water.

“Miss Wizzleby,” began Lionel.

“Weasley,” I grumbled, folding my arms and tucking my chin into my chest in a full-fledged proclamation of how little I wanted to hear the obviously intended lecture. Lionel glared at me from beneath bushy brown eyebrows.

“Miss Whirlyby,” he began again. 

“ _Weasley_.”

“Miss Whelterly!” 

“ _Weasley!_ ”

“MISS _APPLEBY_! I do not think you realize how much trouble you are truly in!”

“Well, I don’t think _you_ realize how much your smell truly resembles that of a rotting pile of regurgitated fish, Officer _Loonel,_ ” I told him, glaring out at him from atop my mountain of loo rolls, “And it’s _Weasley_!”

Lionel turned purple with fury. He puffed himself up to such an extent that I was strongly reminded of my pet puffskein, Arnold. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and bellowed, “Are you calling me a loon, Miss Turnlee!?”

I looked at him blandly. “Of course not, Officer Loonel.”

Lionel’s mustache began to quiver like an enraged caterpillar as he heaved himself up from his chair in anger, and I tossed my hair back in defiance. We glared at each other. We opened our mouths to continue insulting and otherwise throwing tantrums at one-another.

“Come on, Dung. You’ve got to help me out a little here. Can you at least _try_ to walk properly?”

The glaring ceased as both Lionel’s and my heads snapped to the doorway of the grungy little prison, whereupon I perceived a sight so extraordinarily unexpected, so extraordinarily out of place, so extraordinarily _astonishing_ , that I found my attention entirely fixed upon that doorway, as opposed to contemplating the best way in which to get Bubba to stop cracking her knuckles in threat. 

It was stupefying.

It was time-stopping.

It was a dream come true.

It was Harry James Potter, Muggle clothes rumpled and torn, hair more amuck than usual, supporting one Mundungus Fletcher as the man’s head lolled to the side in a drunken stupor.

I gaped at him as Dung made noises that could only be described as intelligible in the company of a school of merpeople holding a merperson convention above water.

Mundungus Fletcher was attempting to sing opera. He discontinued this practice, however, upon hearing Harry’s request, and spent ten seconds attempting to sing and answer Harry at the same time.

Eventually, he sorted himself out, and slurred, “No can do, ‘Arry. Me legsh aren’t coopat-…cooport…coportating…thash no’ righ’…”

Harry sighed, “Cooperating, Dung?”

Mundungus beamed and pointed up at Harry, “Thash the one! Copercolating!”

Harry sighed again. “Come on then. Time to sleep it off. I’m sure Lionel has your cell ready.”

Dung let his head drop back to his shoulder and rolled his glassy, feverish eyes around the room. He briefly mentioned an affinity for tuna as his gaze passed over Lionel’s desk, though it was incomprehensible to anyone who’d never witnessed a drunk Dung Fletcher, and then his eyes landed on me.

“‘Allo, Gin,” he waved at me limply before turning his gaze to Bubba. “‘Allo, Bubba.”

Bubba grunted and lifted a large, shovel-like hand in what must be assumed to be a greeting. Astonishment passed through me briefly as I contemplated the fact that Dung really _did_ know everyone who liked to hang about the dark alleyways at night.

I recovered myself, however, in time to fix a max of indifference upon my face and sigh apathetically.

“Hi Dung,” I said, resting my chin on my hand in a bored manner. I turned to Harry. “ ‘Lo, Harry.” 

Harry looked up at me briefly before turning back to adjusting Dung’s arm more securely about his shoulders. 

“Hi Gin,” he said distractedly. 

He finished adjusting Dung’s arm and straightened himself as best he could, examining his attire with a grimace and a hand through his hair. No doubt he was imagining Hermione’s lecture when she observed his clothing at her rehearsal of a rehearsal dinner. I didn’t blame him for looking so melancholy.

He sighed and shifted under Dung’s weight.

Then he dropped the man altogether.

“ _Ginny_?”

I stopped examining the fingernails of my left hand and looked up at him inquisitively. “Yes?” 

Harry ignored Dung as the man groaned and reached feebly up for help before becoming transfixed by the sight of his hand waving in front of his face. He wiggled his fingers to and fro like a newborn first discovering movement. Faintly, he began to sing again while Harry stared at me. 

“You…in…but…you’re…you’re in prison!”

I raised an eyebrow at him coolly before looking back to my fingernails. “Good observation.”

Harry floundered over Dung’s pathetic form and came to stand in front of my cell. He looked at me intently through the bars. I stared back at him blandly.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

He didn’t respond. 

“Can I help you?” I tried again.

He only shook his head. “You’re really Ginny,” he said, still staring at me.

I blinked and reached down to grab a package of loo rolls as an idea flitted into my head. I held the package out to him.

“Can I offer you some toilet tissue?”

It was completely random, of course, and not at all the witty retort one would expect to come after the rather idiotic statement, “You’re really Ginny,” but I was counting on his astonishment at my being in a Muggle prison for my plan to work.

And work it did.

Absently, he reached a hand between the bars. I sprang to action immediately.

Throwing the package of loo rolls to the side, I leapt up and grabbed Harry’s outstretched arm, hauling it inward until his front was pressed against the metal bars of my prison cell. He made a small grunt of surprise as I wound his arm downwards and out, so that the elbow was positioned at an odd angle. Then I maneuvered myself so that I was standing directly in front of him and looking over his shoulder at a stunned Lionel.

“I would suggest to you, Officer Loonel, to take those keys from your belt and come unlock this prison cell.”

Lionel stared at me. “Why?” he wanted to know.

I fixed my face into a mask of indifferent seriousness.

“You are a male, are you not, Officer Loonel?”

Lionel stared at me again, completely at a loss as to what to say. I raised an eyebrow and asked my question again.

He mouthed incoherently for a moment before finally uttering, “Y-yes. Yes. Yes, I am.”

I nodded briskly. “And as such, unless there was a very serious mishap during your circumcision, you are in possession of, shall we say…male…parts?”

Lionel’s eyes widened to the size of galleons. I took this as an affirmative answer.

“So you will therefore sympathize when I say that I have a hold of one Mr. Harry James Potter’s family jewels. A very strong hold.”

Lionel turned white as he gaped at me. Harry turned red as he gaped at me.

Both of them said, as they gaped at me, “You do?”

I widened my eyes in a significant manner at Harry. “Play along, would you?” I whispered to him. He only continued to gape at me.

I looked back at Lionel. “Yes. I do.”

Lionel didn’t seem convinced. He turned to Harry. “Harry? She does?”

I looked expectantly at Harry. It takes a certain amount of concentration, but if you stare hard enough at a person, you can convey to them an entire threat without uttering a single word.

My eyes were conveying very obviously to Harry the threat, “If you do not answer ‘yes’ to that question, I shall not only Bat-Bogey you to hell and back, but I shall also make it so that your balls are numb for the next year and a half.”

Harry turned white, and I took that as an indication that he understood my meaning.

He nodded his head. Lionel sucked in a sharp breath.

“Is she…” he seemed to be struggling for the right words. “Does she…” he stopped again and rubbed a hand over his cheek agitatedly. “Alright mate, I’m just going to ask you straight out. How hard is her grip?”

Laughter nearly burst from me at the question, but I managed to plaster what I hoped to be a fierce look on my face as Harry’s eyes widened almost to the size of his glasses at the question.

He blinked twice before glancing at me. I cleared my throat slightly.

“Vice-like,” he said.

Lionel’s hand fell from his face. “Good God…” he murmured in a tone that was clearly that of a defeated man.

It took some tricky maneuvering, a promise to Bubba that if she didn’t stop me I’d give her all the tuna I could find in Lionel’s desk, and many offhand remarks of castration and the like to get out of the prison cell and in possession of the keys to the lock, but I managed in the end. I kept Harry’s back to Lionel and my hand hidden from view in front of him so the officer wouldn’t discover my trickery. I told Lionel to clean all his drawers of unopened tuna cans and toss them into the cell for Bubba.

“Unless, of course, you’d like me to twist just a little to the right and remove poor Harry’s…we’ll call it a fifth appendage in order to remain at least slightly civil, shall we?”

Lionel hurried to his drawers and began tossing tuna cans through the open prison cell to Bubba. Bubba grunted happily, grabbed a tuna can, and bit into it. There was a pop and a hiss as the air rushed out of the sealed can, and then a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard and Bubba ripped the can the rest of the way open.

I stared at her.

“Strong jaw,” I mentioned. She ignored me and ate her tuna like a starving hippogriff.

I blinked a few times before turning back to Lionel. 

“Alright, now I need you to toss out all those loo roll packages. Throw them near Harry’s feet.”

Lionel stared at me a moment and didn’t move. I poked Harry in the stomach so he’d suck in a bit of air and double over slightly, as if in severe pain. Lionel hurried into the cell and began throwing loo roll packages over his head frantically. I moved around Harry and stood at the cell door, waiting until Lionel threw the last package out of the cell. Then I shut the door with a clang.

“I imagine there’s enough tuna in there to last you a while,” I said, turning and picking my loo roll packages from the floor. I began piling them in Harry’s arms. “Besides, I’m sure Dung here’ll let you out as soon as he wakes up.”

Dung snored loudly at this precise moment, rolling to his side and jamming his thumb into his mouth sloppily. I placed the keys beside his head and patted his side pityingly. With one last wave at the occupants of the prison cell, I gathered up the rest of my loo rolls and started for the door.

“C’mon, Harry. Hermione’ll kill us if we’re late.”

Harry glanced with wide eyes at Lionel and Bubba (the latter of which was biting into another tuna can as the former eyes her actions fearfully) and then followed me out of the prison.

Bright sunlight blinded me for a moment as I stepped out of the grungy little building, and I blinked a few times to get used to the change in light. When the bright blue tint that had taken over the world slowly receded into the corners of my eyes, I examined my surroundings. I set down my loo rolls and turned to Harry.

“Where are we?” 

No sound came from behind the wall of white toilet tissue behind me.

“Harry?” I asked.

Still no response.

I sighed and removed a plastic-wrapped package from the middle of the wall. Harry’s baffled face peered out at me.

“You just escaped from prison,” he told me.

I raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no response.

He blinked twice. “You just _escaped_ from _prison_ ,” he said again.

I covered my eyes with my hand and took a breath. My hand slid down my face until my eyes stared over the top of it. 

“Harry, how long do you think I’m going to have to wait for you to quit being redundant, because I’m serious about Hermione killing us, and I decided a long time ago that I’d rather not die.”

Harry only continued to stare at me. 

I sighed and removed my wand to shoot the countercurse of the Confundus charm on him in the hopes it would sort him out. It didn’t work out, however, as I found myself quite firmly pressed up against a warm body, my wand stuffed back in my pocket, all in the span of three seconds.

I blinked into the woolen sweater my face was now pressed into and lifted my head to stare at a now fully alert Harry. He was looking over my head and to the street beyond, his eyes flitting from window to window and behind the trashcans in the alleyways.

I blinked again.

“Are you _insane_?” he asked, still searching the street beyond for any sign of life. “This is a completely Muggle neighborhood! Do you _want_ to have to obliviate an entire street of people?”

Again, I only blinked. 

That is, until I stopped breathing. I couldn’t, you see, because Harry had snapped his eyes down to mine, the intensity with which he had been searching the street beyond now focused entirely on me.

Slowly, the indignation melted away from his face to be replaced by something I couldn’t name. I was far too preoccupied with the intensity of his eyes to contemplate the other aspects of his face.

Harry’s breath hitched, and we both exhaled at the same time, our breath mingling in the small space between our faces like a pool of fog that’s been disturbed by a soft footstep. The warmth of it spread across my cheeks as his eyes grew ever closer to my own.

Suddenly, a flash of white flitted across the lenses of his glasses and when it receded his eyes were once again focused over my head. A wolf whistle sounded behind me, and I turned to see a boy of about thirteen leaning on one foot from his bicycle, the sun glinting off the metal of the handlebars. He snickered and tipped an imaginary hat at us before riding off again.

I took a shuddering breath and turned back to Harry. He was staring down the street where the boy had disappeared, refusing to look at me. Finally, he looked down at me.

And stepped away quickly.

The warmth that had tickled my cheeks faded to nothing. We stared at one another.

“I…” Harry started, looking at the ground. He burst into a flurry of motion suddenly and began gathering the plastic packages from the ground quickly.

“See?” he said as he grabbed another package from the ground. “That Muggle would have seen you with your wand, and then what would have happened?”

The fogginess that had consumed my head seemed to dissipate slowly with his words.

I opened my mouth, a few strangled noises coming from my throat before I managed a feeble, “Excuse me?” 

Harry looked up at me. For a moment, I thought the eyes behind his glasses still contained a fragment of the intensity I had seen before, intermingled with a deep sadness, before the shutter closed swiftly behind his pupils.

“You have to be more careful, Ginny. The war may be over, but that doesn’t mean we can be careless. It took an entire year for the Ministry to get to all the Muggles that needed to be obliviated because of all the chaos of the war.”

I gaped at him, anger welling up inside my chest. I could feel my face heating as I thought about the change in him from thirty seconds before.

“ _Excuse_ me?” I said again. “Careless? If you hadn’t been acting like a fool I wouldn’t have had to get my wand out!”

Harry was standing up now. “Well, if you hadn’t acted so drastically and pretended to _hold my balls hostage_ I wouldn’t have been so out of it!”

“Well if you hadn’t sent me that damnable Firewhiskey there wouldn’t have been exploded green chickens from hell and Susan wouldn’t have used up all the toilet tissue, Hermione wouldn’t have remembered we needed more, I wouldn’t have had to go out to get it, and I wouldn’t have had to attack the sodding old lady!”

Harry blinked at me a few times as I stood heaving breaths in before him.

“You _attacked_ an old lady?” 

I screamed in frustration. “It was a noticeable persuasion to get her to return my loo roll package, you prat!”

Harry stared. And then he burst into laughter.

I glared at him. And then I plucked up a package of loo rolls and chucked it at his head.

He laughed harder, and gripped his knees with his hands. “Is that,” he stopped to gasp in air, “is that how you-” he laughed again, “how you attacked the old lady?” 

He let out a howl of laughter when I only glared. “It is!” he cried joyfully, pointing at me. “You threw loo rolls at her!”

I growled at him and began stuffing loo rolls into his arms. I grabbed my share and started towards a back alley, Harry following me, chuckling at odd intervals.

“Loo roll at her,” he chuckled, “Attacked her. Prison. Haaahahahaha.”

I huffed but said nothing, walking briskly ahead of him.

“Aw, come on, Gin,” he said behind me. “You’ve got to admit it’s funny.”

Did not.

“Would it help if I said I was sorry for yelling at you back there?”

I fixed my posture into what I hoped would convey a firm, “No.”

Harry sighed. “What if I-” 

I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence because I’d apparated to the men’s bathroom of History Hall. I heard a faint pop from the hallway and then a soft creak as the swinging door was opened.

“Ginny?” 

I continued to fix rolls of toilet tissue in the stalls. Harry came into the room.

“I really am sorry, Gin,” he said. I didn’t turn, but my back lost some of its stiffnes despite my willing it not to. I wanted to make him suffer for looking at me like he had and making my brain go misty. I wanted to punish him for making all my old feelings come flying back.

I jumped as I felt a pair of arms encircled my waist from behind.

Harry’s voice sounded to the side of my head. I could feel his breath tickling the skin behind my ear.

“Please Gin?” he said softly, “Forgive me?”

Just barely, I managed to keep myself from shuddering. I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself before turning in his embrace and sticking a package of loo rolls in his chest.

“Fine,” I said, “But only if you finish putting all these in the stalls.”

Harry grinned and grabbed the package.

“Gladly,” he said happily, and turned to leave the stall. I braced myself on the side walls and took a deep breath as I heard Harry fumbling around in the next stall.

What had happened outside the Muggle prison?

Well, I knew what had happened. I’d been forced to finally admit that perhaps I wasn’t _completely_ indifferent towards the guy. And there was really no denying it any longer. I was sunk.

But what about him?

Something in me wanted to hope that that look he’d given me had meant something, but…well, that was Harry, wasn’t it? He was always fluctuating between moods, and his eyes showed all of them. That one hadn’t been any different from the rest.

Hoping wouldn’t get me anywhere.

Can we say angst? I was totally angsting out. Like a teenager high on Mandrake fumes.

I was depressed. My thoughts were depressed. I was leaning against a depressing bathroom stall next to the man that was making me feel depressed.

It was depressing. 

I decided I needed to stop being depressed and forget about Harry. It was hard, though, since he insisted on _talking_ to me.

“So what _did_ you do to that old lady that landed you in the slammer?”

I took a breath, pushed off the wall, and resolved myself not to be depressed.

“I threw a package of loo rolls at her and she landed in a tuna can mountain,” I said, leaning against the doorframe of the stall Harry was in. 

He looked over his shoulder at me with a disbelieving look on his face. “You’re serious?”

I nodded. “Perfectly.”

Harry burst out laughing again. He straightened, still chuckling, and moved around me to get to the next stall.

“Merlin, I love you, Gin,” he said, smiling at me before he disappeared into the next stall.

I froze.

It was like a miniature Hungarian Horntail was trapped inside my chest while her precious egg lay _outside_ my chest.

He was joking with me. He’d just told me he loved me in a tone that suggested a brotherly sort of love. Or maybe a friendly sort of love.

The sort of love you have for someone because they amuse you.

That made me bitter. Really bitter. I was as bitter as a lemon wedge in a soup made of unripe apple juice.

I was even more bitter than that.

I was as bitter as…Snape when his most hated student passed his potions NEWT with flying colors due to tutoring from Hermione and a textbook that had previously belonged to Severus Snape himself.

See? You see what I mean? Everything came back to Harry.

I came back from my reverie to find Harry peering out at me from a bathroom stall.

“You alright?” he asked.

I looked away from him and started towards the doorway. “Fine,” I said shortly. “I’m going to find Hermione.”

Harry frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright.”

“I’m _fine_ , Harry!” I exploded, turning at the doorway. “I don’t need another brother always asking me that, alright!?”

I don’t have very good control over my emotions sometimes, see.

I left him gaping as I pushed through the doorway. I was on my way outside. Where I was going to throw something. And break something.Multiple things. I was going to throw a tantrum. A huge tantrum. I was going to throw a tantrum of a tantrum of a tantrum.

I was going to cause a premature Armageddon.

I ripped open the front door of History Hall and came face to face with the bride-chicken from hell.

“Oh Merlin,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

“Ginny!” said Hermione, obviously irritated, “Why aren’t you dressed yet!? The dinner starts in ten minutes!”

I shut the door with a sigh as Hermione pushed past me.

“Well then that gives me ten minutes cause some serious damage to something valuable.”

Hermione looked at me sharply. She seemed to be judging something. I leaned against the door, unable to bring myself to care much.

“The couch hasn’t been picked up yet. It’s still on the sidewalk outside my flat. If you’ll go quickly, and get here on time, I’ll get the notecards ready,” she said simply.

I stared at her a moment, before enveloping her in a hug and desperately trying to keep the tears in my eyes from brimming over my eyelids.

“Thanks, Hermione,” I whispered. She tutted and told me to hurry up.

I apparated away to the back alley behind her flat.

Seven minutes later I was dressed in my soft yellow semi-casual dress robes and standing in front of a mound of springs, fluffy white stuffing, and torn blue fabric.

If it wasn’t in one’s prior knowledge that it had been a couch, one would have thought that perhaps a bomb had exploded in a fabric shop.

The chaos and destruction placated me somewhat.

But not enough to cease dreading going to this dinner.

I sighed and apparated back to the front hallway of History Hall.

Hermione looked up at me from the flower arrangement she was adjusting on a side table.

“Better?” she asked.

“Slightly.”

“Want to talk about it in the three minutes we have before people start arriving?”

“No thanks.”

Hermione nodded her head and turned back to her flower arrangement, and I managed to plaster a smile on my face as everyone involved in the wedding began arriving and I handed them their notecards.

The rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner went as smoothly as possible when you have the entire Weasley clan in one room. Aside from the flesh pile of groomsmen in the middle of the aisle when Dad had stopped suddenly to exclaim at the ekeltric lamp he saw in the corner, the discovery that no one knew who was supposed to have gone to get the rings for the ceremony in two days time, and the involuntary combustion of a flower arrangement due to George tripping over a candle stand in the hallway, the dinner went off without a hitch.

Hermione reckoned this just proved she was right in having a rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner. Hopefully, she thought, with one more night practicing for the wedding, nothing might blow up on the actual day.

Personally, I didn’t share in this hope. I’d had too much experience with the Weasley family. Things _always_ went wrong when we were all gathered in one place.

Which is precisely why I spent most of the night avoiding Harry and trying to sort out the confusion brought about as a result of everyone trying to read their notecards since Fred and George had managed to switch them all around at the last minute. 

Unfortunately for me, this meant Harry had an excuse _not_ to follow the directions of his notecard and periodically try to jump me and demand to know why I wasn’t speaking with him.

This made eluding him a bit more difficult. Proven by the fact that he had just jumped out at me from behind another flower arrangement as I passed down the hall to try and find Forge and tell him he had best either sort out the notecards or part company with his head.

I jumped and made a small squeak of surprise as Harry appeared in front of me.

“Talk to me,” he said.

I stared at him for a moment before shaking my head and continuing past him. “I don’t have time, Harry. Have you seen Forge?”

Harry trailed after me as I opened doors looking for my brother. 

“Would that be Fred or George?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, I haven’t seen either.”

“Alright, let me know if you do.”

“Ginny, please talk to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“No, I mean tell me why you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“Then why aren’t you speaking with me!?”

“I thought we just established that I _was_ speaking with you.”

“Fine. Well then why are you avoiding me?”

I slammed the door of the broom closet I had just peered into in search of Forge and turned to Harry.

“I’m not,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Well then _why_ ,” he asked, “did you duck under the dining room table when I came into the room earlier?”

I flushed slightly at this and Harry nodded shortly. “Ya, I saw you do that,” he said.

I turned back around and continued my search for the missing twin.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” I said, looking irrationally into the depths of a ceramic vase in the hallway, “I was…looking for my earring.”

“You’re not wearing earrings.”

I let out a short breath of frustration. “Which is _why_ ,” I told him as I turned back around, “I was _looking_ for them.”

Harry grabbed my shoulders and stopped me as I started past him.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“ _I_ don’t really care,” I told him. “So if you would _kindly_ release me so I can go find Forge, it would be _much_ appreciated.”

“No,” said Harry simply. Probably my eyes flashed fire. I was getting _dangerously_ pissed.

“What did you say?” I asked him menacingly.

He shrugged and kept his hold on my shoulders.

“No.”

My breathing quickened as I worked myself up to a right temper. I opened my mouth to make a scathing comment. I was cut off, however, by the appearance of my dearest brother Forge.

“Uh-oh, Harry,” he said, “Looks like you’ve awoken the beastly fire-breathing midget from hell. What’d you do?”

Harry looked behind his shoulder at Forge. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Ah, you might want to give up. She usually doesn’t do much besides claw your eyes out and bite you fingers off once she gets that red.”

“Really?” Harry asked.

Forge nodded. “Oh yes. Mum had to do a tricky bit of spell work on me once when she bit my nose clean off. Just like that.” Forge made a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Merlin. Vicious,” mentioned Harry.

They were talking about me like I wasn’t there. I didn’t like it. It was making me even angrier.

You could tell by the way my face was turning purple.

“Maybe it’s PMS,” said Forge.

Harry reddened a bit at the mention of the feminine affliction but otherwise managed to stay composed. “You think?” he asked, “I’ve never seen her like this, and that’s a…well, that’s a monthly sort of thing, you know.”

Forge nodded sagely and they both turned to me, expectant looks on their faces.

“You’re both wankers and I despise you with every fiber of my being,” I said.

They exchanged a significant look.

“Yep,” said Forge, “it’s PMS.”

I growled at him and ripped my shoulders from Harry’s grip.

“Harry, unless you’d rather me make do on the false threat I used to get out of that predicament I was in earlier, I suggest you _stop_ asking me if I’m alright, _stop_ popping up from behind flower arrangements, and _stop_ talking about me as if I’m not here.”

Harry turned a bit peakish and nodded before turning and walking back down the hall quickly. I turned to Forge.

“And unless you want to part company with your head, brother mine, you might want to go fix those notecards before Hermione explodes.”

Forge looked at me mischievously before turning and wandering casually back down the hall.

“Next time you have a lover’s spat with dear Harry, warn me will you? I’d like to sell tickets. It’s quite amusing when you turn purple like that.”

It was unfortunate there was not a Charms class I could summon to the foyer of History Hall to observe first hand the incapacitating effects of a perfectly created Bat-Bogey hex. They would have learned loads.

Harry popped his head around the corner down the hallway and examined the flailing Forge.

“I don’t suppose you would consider refraining from doing that to me if I asked you, as a concerned friend, once more what I’ve done to make you angry?”

A giant black scorch mark graced the wall where Harry’s head had been moments earlier, and he looked at it fearfully before peaking back at me and nodding.

“Right,” he said. “Got it.”

His head disappeared back behind the doorframe and I glanced once more at George before apparating away to my empty, bare-walled flat. I threw my wand on the small kitchen table, collapsed onto the shabby couch in my living room, and cried until my head throbbed and my face felt like it was ready to catch fire. Then I made myself a cup of tea.

And as I poured the hot water into my mug, I was slightly placated by remembering that I’d made an alteration to Harry’s wedding apparel which he’d discover in two days’ time.

It made me marginally happier.

I looked at Arnold, puffing around in his cage on my kitchen counter.

“No offense, Arnold,” I told him, “But men suck.”

Arnold stopped puffing for a moment to look out at me inquisitively.

“Well, maybe you don’t suck so much, but most men do.”

Arnold made no response.

“You’re supposed to comfort me now, you know,” I told him. Still, he didn’t move.

Finally, I sighed and blew my nose in a tissue, deciding I’d try to play the denial game again.

“Of course, you wouldn’t know because you’re not a girl, but PMS really does suck. Makes you feel things that you wouldn’t normally.” I chanced a glance at the little puffskein.

It might’ve been my imagination, but I could swear he was looking at me in a fashion that suggested he was thinking, “Right. And I’m a Blast-Ended Skrewt with eyes.”

I huffed at him and stomped towards my bedroom. 

“Fine!” I yelled, “See if I care!” 

And with that, I slammed my bedroom door with such force that the doorknob came off in my hand.

I stared at it. Then I stared at the hole where it was supposed to be. Then I tried opening the door and discovered that I couldn’t. Then I thought about how my wand was outside on the kitchen table.

“Shit,” I said, and then I threw the doorknob out the window in a fit of rage. Immediately, small snowflakes began blowing through the hole in the glass.

“Shit,” I said again, before I walked over to my bed, curled my covers around me in a protective cocoon, and sipped on my cooling tea in resignation.

“I hate Sod and his sodding laws,” I told my mug of tea, “And I don’t care if he hears me saying that, either, the sodding wanker.”

**_A/N: There you go! Long, huh? Bit different towards the end, too, what with Ginny angsting out and all that._ **

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**_But I figured she’s human even if she’s usually more amusing than anything else. She has feelings too, you know :P_ **

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**_Don’t worry. Next chapter she’ll get control of herself. Well…somewhat, anyways._ **

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**_Review please!_**


	13. When the Bat Shit Hits the Invalid

**_A/N: 9,281 words. It's an attempt to compensate for the (once again) long period between updating. However, seeing as how it's now summer and I'm blissfully free for a whole three months, this story should be finished by that time._ **

**_On that note, anyone who wants to see any sort of sneak peak, read the final editted version of any of my stuff, or be informed of progress updates for this fic or any other subsequent fic I write, join the Yahoo! Group I've recently created. The link is the homepage listed on my profile, and I've fixed the glitch that made it where you had to be 18, so anyone can join!_ **

**_Happy reading!_ **

**_-h_ **

**_Disclaimer: No._ **

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When the Bat Shit Hits the Invalid

_For ten hour plane flights. Because there's nothing like boredom and bad food To motivate fic-writing._

Morning light spilled into my room from my broken window and draped its long tendrils across my bed like flowing silk scarves. The wireless switched on at seven to coax me awake with the soft voice of the morning news anchor, the walls around me gently creaked and groaned as if stretching lazily after a good night’s rest, and various quiet jinglings could be heard outside as just a few shop owners arrived to set things up for the day.

It was a beautiful morning. I knew this. In one of the far recesses of my brain, I might have actually been happy and content about it. I couldn’t reach into that particular recess, however, because every other recess of my mind was occupied with three very pressing and important thoughts.

1) I had to pee.

2) My bum was morphed into a frozen lolly.

And 3) It was entirely too quiet for a Friday morning in Muggle London.

In order of importance.

“Fuck,” I mumbled into my pillow as I groaned and rolled over, pulling the large duvet down over my bum. Sometime in the course of my long, cold, and distressingly restless night it had managed to entangle itself above my waist, along with the folds of my dress robes, leaving my bum exposed with nothing but a thin layer of cotton knickers covering it, pointing towards my broken window.

My hand brushed over my behind and I wrinkled my nose at the _extraordinarily_ odd sensation of feeling your own bum when it's doing a remarkably convincing job of imitating a frozen lolly. It made me feel distinctly violated. I groaned and burrowed deeper into my bed.

“Fuck,” I mumbled again, as consciousness crept in steadily. I dislodged my arm from its position tangled between my body and the mussed sheets beneath me and reached up to close the gap of the duvet in front of my face.

“Go ‘way,” I told the consciousness. “Leave me ‘lone.”

Consciousness, of course, didn’t respect my wishes because it was a conniving little snothead, and I sighed as I realized that I was not going back to sleep while I could still tell my bum was frozen solid due to the fact that I was lying on my back, and I couldn’t feel the mattress beneath it.

“Sodding sod,” I grumbled, reaching up to rub my eyes with both hands as I used my elbows and feet to disentangle myself from the sheets. I yawned, stretched my hands over my head until they hit the headboard of my bed, and shivered from the cold. Bringing my hands back down to gather the duvet above my shoulders, I opened my eyes.

And promptly snapped them closed again.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” I cursed for the third time that morning, squeezing my eyes tight as memories from the night before came rushing back, the most important being as follows:

I was trapped in my room, with no means of escape and no means of survival besides the blankets wrapped around me, and a broken window that had apparently been facing against the wind, as there was now an inch of snow blanketing every single item in my room, including my bed.

And probably my bum.

“-during the record breaking blizzard last night in London. More than five feet of snow now blankets Diagon Alley, and temperatures last night reached nearly twenty below. A few shopowners are bravely trudging through the deep snowdrifts, determined to set their shop up for another day, and though it can’t be said we expect they’ll get much business today, we can say they are certainly very brave souls. This is a day for staying inside and having a nice hot cup of tea, ladies and gentlemen, and this reporter suggests a pair of furry socks and a good book as well…Preparations are already being made for the annual Victory Day celebration in honor of Harry Potter’s defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named five years ago, and rumor has it the Boy-Who-Lived himself will be attending with his speculated girlfriend Miss-…”

I scowled at the little wireless and smacked the button atop it with such force that it toppled off the table and landed with a muffled thump in the snow beneath it. I stared at the space on the table top where it had just been for a moment before slowly leaning over to peer over the edge of my bed.

“I hope you’re dead,” I told the small contraption resting on its face in the snow. "And I hope you've gone to hell." It didn’t make a response, and I blew a raspberry at it before throwing myself back onto the bed and pulling the covers over my head.

I sighed and narrowed my eyes at the green cloth draped over my head.

Harry Potter. Harry bloody sodding _git-faced_ Potter. Harry bloody sodding _git-faced_ Potter and his bleeding speculated _girlfriend_.What a wonderful thought to wake up to.

I hated him. I despised him. I hoped he’d develop an incurable rash round his unmentionables. And I was going to tell him that. Just as soon as I got out of my room and could find a quill and parchment.

And also after I peed. I really had to pee.

With this in mind, I peeked out from beneath the heavy duvet and examined the room around me. There was no bathroom attached to the bedroom; I’d never thought I’d need one. My flat was tiny, just a small kitchen on one side that was open and faced the rest of the apartment, which consisted of a smallish living room furnished with a couch and coffee table, a bathroom on one wall, and then the bedroom on the other. So, I either had to get out of that room to the bathroom, and fast, or I needed to find something to pee in.

My eyes landed on my empty tea mug from the night before. The empty tea mug with _no_ hot tea in it and _no_ book resting beside it and _no_ pair of fuzzy socks anywhere in its vicinity.

“Boiling toads,” I muttered, realizing that it was the only thing in the room that was remotely suitable for the job. “I’m doomed.”

Briefly I entertained thoughts of smashing the window in the rest of the way and launching myself out of it, in the hopes that the five feet of snow below would perhaps break my fall enough to cause only marginally profuse internal bleeding, but I determined that that was a bad idea since the door to the building would be snowed in, the key to my apartment was hanging on the hook inside the door, and all the shops were closed because of the blizzard. And because I'm allergic to internal bleeding of any kind.

All of this meant that I would probably freeze and die. And though that thought wasn’t entirely unwelcome considering the emotional state I was in at the time, I’d meant what I’d told Harry the day before about deciding a long time ago that I’ll always be too young to die.

I glanced at the cup again.

I could do it. I could pee in a cup. Lots of people peed in cups, really. There was probably a We-Pee-In-Cups Club. Where everyone who joined made a habit of peeing in cups. It’s just they probably usually called them toilets. But a toilet was basically just very large ceramic version of a cup anyways, wasn’t it? A bit? To some extent?

And then, Muggles peed in cups. At least once a year. We’d learned about it in the Muggle Studies portion of Healer training. Doctors always made their patients pee in cups because they had to run scientific tests on them to make sure they didn’t have any incurable diseases that would kill them. Which, as I informed the Professor of Healing when he told us this, I thought was completely unnecessary. What’s the point of making someone go through the embarrassing agony of peeing in a cup, only to run tests on the pee, figure out they’re dieing, and then tell them they have three months to live, and if they really want to jump out of a hairpane, now was the time to do it. Of course, the professor didn’t appreciate my analysis, informed me that they didn’t only find incurable diseases with their techniques, and that he rather thought I would be jumping out of an _airplane_ after I took his final and received my mark back.

And then we went back to discussing peeing in cups.

So it could be done.

…Right?

Glancing wearily at the cup again, I’d nearly formulated an appropriately damning thought about it, when I heard a noise outside my door.

It sounded vaguely like a train crashing into a magically reinforced brick wall. Either that or a dragon going through de-tox.

I cut my eyes to my knobless door.

“ _Shit_.”

The voice was muffled due to the fact that the person cursing was in the other room, but I knew who it was all the same. How could I not? It’s not as if he was unaccustomed to saving the day. Besides, there was only one person in the world who could make that much noise falling out of a fireplace.

“Harry,” I said under my breath. “ _Harry_...HARRY!”

I bolted out of my bed and launched myself at my bedroom door.

“Harry!” I cried again, pounding on the wood. Snow crunched beneath my bare feet and shot needles up to my ankles, but I continued to pound furiously on the door, dancing from foot to foot despite the fact that it did absolutely nothing to stop the cold in them.

“Ginny?” I heard Harry’s muffled voice, this time closer to the door, like he was just on the other side.

“Yes!” I said, pressing my cheek to the wood. “I’m stuck in here! You’ve got to let me out!”

There was a pause.

“You’re stuck?”

“Yes!”

“Really?”

No, Harry, I’m lying. I’m simply pounding frantically on the door merely for the enjoyment of bruising the outsides of my fists and possibly incurring the wrath of my landlord when the neighbors complained. Merlin alive, the boy was so thick sometimes.

“ _Yes_ , Harry, _really_!” I yelled again.

There was another pause.

“Why is there snow coming out from under your door?”

“Because I threw a doorknob through my window.”

“…Why?”

“Because I was _pissed_ because it came off in my hand, Harry, open the damn door!”

All that could be heard on the other side of the door were faint shuffling noises, as if Harry were turning in a circle examining the rest of the room.

“Ginny, how come your wand is out here on the table?”

I screamed in frustration. “Because I left it there, you git! Now would you _please_ open the door? I’ve got to use the loo!”

“The floo? Who do you need to floo?” he asked curiously. Then he added, “I don’t think you should. Dangerous business, the floo. Probably you should owl them instead.”

“Not the floo, you dolt, the _loo_!”

I bounced up and down on my toes in the universal sign that means a person is about two seconds away from wetting themselves, and glared towards the door when I heard no sound from the other side.

“Harry, you open this door right now, or so help me I will send your Firebolt to Charlie and tell him to give it to his Hungarian Horntail.”

Immediately, the knob rattled and Harry pulled open the door. “Thank Merlin!” I exclaimed, pushing past him and dashing into the loo, slamming the door behind me.

I paused for half a second and looked back towards the doorway. "I hope you develop a rash round your unmentionables!" I yelled, and then I nodded with satisfaction, and rushed to the toilet.

It took a bit of effort, but I managed not to blush at the thought of Harry Potter _hearing_ me use the loo, and I was just composing myself to open the door and face him, when I realized that that would be quite an impossibility.

“No. Bloody. Way,” I said, staring at the doorknob in my hand. There was silence for a time, aside from the occasional drip from my leaky bathroom faucet in the corner, and then I heard Harry shift from the middle of the outside room.

“Erm…Gin?” he asked hesitantly, his voice inching towards the bathroom door. I continued to stare at the object in my hand in disbelief.

“Gin?”

The was a soft knock on the door.

“Gin, are you…are you alright?”

I shook my head no.

“…Ginny, I’m serious. Are you alright? It’s just there’s at least an inch of snow in your bedroom and your puffskein looks as if it’s been hit with a massive Tickling Hex, and I’m really starting to wonder if you’re not going mad…”

My head snapped up at this and I glared at the wood in front of me where I imagined Arnold’s cage was on the other side, but still I said nothing.

“Alright Gin, I really hope you’re decent because I’m getting worried and I’m opening the door…Okay? Can I open the door?”

I nodded shortly. I realize he couldn’t see me, yes, but I was more preoccupied with wondering just what exactly I had done to piss Sod off so much. I thought perhaps it was calling him a wanker the night before, but I couldn’t be positive.

Harry muttered something under his breath that sound suspiciously like a plea to Merlin not to let me be unclothed, and opened the door, peeking his head around the corner with his eyes closed. He took a deep breath, muttered something else, and cracked an eye open half a centimeter. When he caught sight of me, he blew out a sigh of relief and stood up straighter, looking highly bewildered. He glanced at the knob in my hand.

“Ginny, what the bloo-”

“Here,” I said, stuffing the doorknob in his hand and pushing past him towards my kitchen table. “Be a dear and fix that, would you?”

Harry stared after me as I crossed the room to the table and snatched up my wand. I pointed it at Arnold, who was quivering and puffing and jittering about his cage in silent laughter.

“Laugh all you want, you little bugger,” I told him, glaring. “No Friday ice cream for disrespectful puffskeins.”

Arnold stopped puffing at that, and looked up at me with sad eyes, blinking innocently.

I scowled. “Don’t give me that,” I told him, but I scooped him from his cage anyhow and plopped him on my shoulder. There was a slight noise behind me and I looked over my shoulder to see Harry levitating the doorknob back to its place and flicking his wand to attach it.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, realizing that despite his inadvertent barreling over of my emotions the day before, I couldn’t very well be short with him when he’d just saved me from certain doom twice _and_ fixed my door all in the span of five minutes. “I suppose I don’t _really_ hope you develop a rash round your unmentionables.”

Harry smiled and turned, starting to nod.

“No pro-…blem,” he trailed off, staring at me.

“What?” I asked, turning around to face him fully. His eyes snapped up to my face.

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Oh, um…nothing, it’s just you’ve got…um, something on your…erm…”

My eyes widened and I threw my wand back on the table, turned around to snatch the metal toaster from my counter, and peered into in shrewdly.

“Where?” I asked, turning my head from side to side, looking for something on my face. I bared my teeth in the reflection and examined them for broccoli pieces, despite the fact I hadn’t eaten broccoli since I was four, on account of I hated it and enjoyed likening it to evil incarnate. I lifted my face above the toaster, teeth still bared, and cocked an eyebrow. “Whir?” I asked again through my teeth.

Harry seemed to have to shake himself out of stupefaction again, as he brought a hand to the back of his neck and looked to the floor, blushing.

“No…I mean, yes…um, I mean there’s nothing on your…your face,” he mumbled, staring at the floor.

I frowned at him, letting my mouth relax. “Well then what are you blushing about?”

Harry blushed even further and glanced up at me quickly. “Um…um, well, it’s just you have a…a spot on…on your…” he mumbled something incomprehensible, and blushed even further.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” I said, frowning confusedly.

Harry took a breath and looked up at me, tomato red. “On your bum,” he said, quickly looking down again.

I gaped at him in horror before quickly holding the toaster behind me and looking over my shoulder at the reflection. There, covering the entirety of my bum, was a giant spot of darker yellow than the rest of my robes. It looked like I’d wet myself. Probably that’s what Harry thought, that I’d wet myself. It was logical, wasn’t it? I’d rushed past him into the loo, so I therefore might not have…you know…made it...in...time.

“Oh Merlin,” I whispered, looking up at him quickly. “I didn’t wet myself, Harry.”

He didn't look particularly believing of me, and I sniffed mightily in an effort to control myself, before I crumpled to a heap in the floor and burst into tears.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry said, his voice panicked, “Don’t cry, Ginny, please don’t cry.”

He rushed over to me and knelt down where I was curled, my head buried in my knees, arms wrapped around my folded legs, sobbing uncontrollably over the events of the past day. Ten seconds passed where he seemed to debate whether or not I would explode if he touched me, and he spent a few moments fluttering his hands about my pathetic form as if I were trapped within an invisible box. Finally, he seemed to conclude that touching me wasn’t a mortal sin, and he put an arm awkwardly around my shoulders.

In any other circumstance, I think I would have rolled my eyes and told him he was beyond helpless with crying girls. Or girls in general, for that matter. However, taking into account the considerable amount of distress I was in at the time, it only made me cry harder.

Harry couldn’t even put an arm around me comfortably anymore. I was a stranger to him. Probably he hated me. Probably he thought I was the pathetic, vile, disgusting scum lining the bottom of Cornelius Fudge’s bathroom toilet.

Probably he thought his speculated girlfriend was sunshine personified, and I was nothing more than the digested slime emanated from a flobberworm’s backside. Probably he was totally and completely in love with his speculated girlfriend, he was getting ready to ask her to marry him, and they were going to have hundreds of little cherubic babies that had their father’s wonderful eyes and their mother’s sunshiney face, and everyone would love the happy little family, and I would end up in Azkaban because I went after the speculated girlfriend armed with a large pitchfork and a poisonous Basilisk fang and tried to mutilate her stupid sunshiney face in my agony of unrequited love.

I cried harder at the horrible image in my head.

Harry’s distress increased, and he shifted in desperation. “Oh cripes,” he said. “Oh bollocks,” he said. “Okay,” he said, and then I found myself being lifted in his strong arms and carried over to the couch. It was enough to make me positively explode with tears, probably enough to fill eight of Hagrid’s oversized bathtubs, because now he was rising above his total aversion to me and being a noble Gryffindor.

Once again.

“Shhh,” Harry said, rocking me back and forth on his lap as I sobbed. “Shhh, I’m sorry.”

I unwedged my face from the crook of his neck to stare at him, breathing in a deep, hitched breath and wiping my eyes before I felt myself composed enough to speak.

“You’re s-sorry?” I asked, a few tears still streaming down my face. “What f-for?”

Harry seemed relieved that I’d stopped crying as hard, but he still looked distinctly uncomfortable about the few tears still running down my cheeks.

“For not telling you that I really believe that you didn’t wet your pants.”

This set me off again, being that it reminded me that he always blamed everyone’s suffering on himself, and I buried my face back in his shoulder. His arms wrapped around my waist, and he ran a hand up and down my back soothingly. The thought that probably he did that same thing, only in a more seductive way, to his speculated girlfriend, prevented me from stemming the crying for at least three and a quarter minutes more. Finally, when I had gotten enough control over myself to at least speak, I shook my head and mumbled into his shoulder.

“I really didn’t wet myself,” I said. “It was the snow. It snowed on my bum last night. It must have melted when I got up.”

Harry let out the breath he’d apparently been keeping in as I sobbed in his shoulder, and shifted slightly so that he could adjust his glasses.

“It snowed on your bum?”

I nodded into his shoulder.

“Bugger,” he said.

I smiled through my tears and lifted my head up to look at him.

“Ya,” I said, and I wiped at my face with my sleeves. Suddenly, I realized that I had just spent the last ten minutes in Harry Potter’s _lap_ , sobbing into his shoulder while he tried to comfort me. Silent tears slid out of my eyes again. “I’m really sorry Harry,” I whispered.

His eyes widened in panic at the tears, and he quickly lifted a hand to thumb them away. “You’re sorry? What for?”

“For crying all over your shirt,” I said through a constricted throat as his thumb brushed at my cheek. “And for saying that I hoped you developed a rash round your unmentionables. I don’t really hope you develop a rash round your unmentionables, Harry, I promise I don’t.”

A grin spread over Harry’s face and he chuckled lightly. “Thanks, Gin. Means a lot.”

I let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and tucked a flyaway hair behind my ear. Harry looked at me intently for a few seconds.

“Who’s upset you, Gin?”

My head snapped up and I saw that his eyes were beginning to show traces of anger.

“What? No one’s upset me!”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well then why were you crying?”

Ah, bollocks. Couldn’t he have asked a more reasonable question? Like maybe, “Want me to dump my speculated girlfriend and make passionate love to you?” Then I’d know how to answer.

Instead, I had to fabricate. And I had to do it well.

“Because…because…” I searched through my mind desperately for something appropriately grief-inducing. “Because Arnold died!” I wailed, pretending to have another wave of grief strike me. So much for telling a convincing fabrication. I figured I would have to make up for it in melodrama.

Harry cocked an eyebrow while I blubbered and sobbed and carried on as such.

“Did he now?”

I nodded and wiped a tear from my eye. “Yes,” I said, “and it’s perfectly horrendous and I shan’t ever get over it.” I accompanied this proclamation with another heart-wrenching sob, though I’m sure it sounded more like a dragon belching after his afternoon tea of dead animal carcasse.

Usually I’m much better at fabricating than this. Usually I’m rather good at it. I think my failure this particular time had something to due with the fact that Arnold was perched on my shoulder and had chosen this exact moment to nuzzle up to my ear and purr loudly.

I froze, glancing at Harry before I turned to Arnold and stared at him for a moment. Then I let out a joyous cry and scooped him into my palms.

“Arnold!” I proclaimed in what I hoped sounded like astonishment, “You’re alive! Look Harry, I was wrong! Arnold’s alive!”

Harry only looked at me disbelievingly. “Understandable, since fifteen minutes ago you were threatening the cancellation of his Friday ice cream.”

I ducked my head sheepishly. “Oh, um…was I? I have a really horrible memory, you know. I can’t recall…”

I glanced up at Harry and upon seeing his skeptical look, decided an escape tactic was desperately needed.

“So,” I said, “Break any bones tumbling out of my fireplace this morning? Speaking of which, why _were_ you tumbling out of my fireplace this morning?”

Harry frowned. “You’re trying to change the subject in order to make me stop asking questions,” he said.

As a result of figuring I was not at my best in terms of fabrication creating that morning, I decided to simply nod my head and say, “Is it working?”

Harry sighed and scratched the back of his head. “For now, I guess it is.”

My eyes widened in surprise. I really hadn’t expected that answer.

“Really?”

Harry nodded. “Ya, but only because we’ve got to go. Hermione woke me up at six this morning to tell me you and I had to go to Madam Malkin’s for the groomsmen tuxedos. Apparently she doesn’t trust me to get them properly,” he rolled his eyes before fixing a playful glare on me and pointing a finger at my nose, “But you can expect to be cornered later and interrogated.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and bit at his finger. He snatched it away and laughed.

“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time, Harry?” I asked.

Harry tried to look innocent and failed miserably. “Learn my lesson about what?”

I poked him in the chest. “About popping out at me from behind flower arrangements in the name of interrogation.”

Harry gasped and tried to keep from laughing. “I did no such thing!” He smiled at me mischievously. “It must be that really horrible memory of yours.”

I punched him in the chest and made to get up from his lap. “That’s it. I’m getting my wand.”

Doubled over from my punch, Harry gasped in a breath before grabbing my sides and hauling me back to his lap. “No you won’t,” he said. “I’m smart enough to know not to let you do that.”

I glared at him and reared my arm back to punch him again. He caught it in the air and cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Bit violent today, aren’t we Ginevra?”

I struggled to free my fist from his grasp, but he maintained a firm grip. Finally, I gave up and reared my other arm back to throw a left-handed punch.

Harry caught that hand too. He laughed as I struggled.

“You _dare_ to call me by my full name?” I exclaimed dramatically. “You shall suffer my mighty wrath, you knave!”

Harry laughed evilly and pushed my fists until they were even with my shoulders, leaning in as he did so that our faces were about a foot apart.

“Say Wizard,” he said, looking at me smugly.

I tossed my head defiantly and tried to push my fists back towards him. They didn’t move.

“Never!”

Harry forced my hands up and over my head while I struggled to release them. “Say Wizard, Ginevra _Molly_.”

I froze at his words. “What did you call me?”

Harry looked smug. “You heard me.”

“You’re dead.”

With that I changed tactics and lunged towards Harry. His eyes widened as I pushed our hands over his head, and I came at him. Having six brothers who like to pick on you generally hones your defensive skills.

Harry overbalanced as a result of my attack and he fell backwards onto the couch, pulling me with him. Arnold squeaked as he flew off my shoulder and landed on the top of the sofa cushion.

“Oof,” I said and I landed sprawled across his chest, our hands clasped over our heads. Sometime during the chaotic sprawl onto the couch, my fingers had freed themselves from a fist and splayed outwards, entwining with Harry’s own. My heartbeat quickened at the realization, and I stared down at him wide-eyed. He was looking up at me, the laughter on his face slowly fading to be replaced by that intense gaze of his.

I felt my brain going misty again as I realized I could feel his heartbeat on my chest.

“Ginny, I need to te-” Harry started, looking up at me intently, but I cut him off before I could stop myself.

I kissed Harry Potter. I just leaned down and _bam!_ kissed the living daylights out of him.

It was glorious. It was bliss. It was absolute euphoria. It was about two seconds before my brain caught up with my actions, and I leapt off the couch, pulling my hands away from his slackened grip.

_Shit_ , I thought, _I just kissed Harry Potter_.

I stared down at him in horror. I had kissed Harry Potter, just like that, with no warning whatsoever, when I _knew_ that he had a speculated girlfriend and an absolute aversion of me since I was the scum lining Fudge’s toilet. I’d just ruined any chance I ever had of leading a happy lifestyle, with no insane asylums and no jail time due to hysterical attacks with pitchforks and Basilisk fangs.

I’d just doomed myself for all eternity.

There was only one thing I could do. And that was run away.

I scooped Arnold up from atop the sofa, above a totally bewildered looking Harry, and ran over to deposit him in his cage. I threw a few puffskein treats in for him, closed his cage, and grabbed my wand from the kitchen counter.

Turning back to see Harry scrambling up from the couch, looking at me through crooked glasses, I raised my wand and prepared to apparate. Harry’s eyes widened.

“Wait, Gin I-”

I cut him off quickly, my face burning. “Don’t worry about Madam Malkin’s,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

And with that, I apparated to the sidewalk right outside her shop and pushed open the door hastily, the bells above it tinkling madly. They tinkled again directly after me, of course, as Harry stepped in behind me and reached for the back of my robes. I scooted out of his reach to the front counter.

“No, don’t worry about it, Harry,” I said, trying desperately to keep my face from catching fire. “It’s not a problem.”

Harry blew out a frustrated breath from behind me and stepped around to my side. “I don’t care about the stupid clothes, Ginny, I want to tal-”

“Madam Malkin!” I exclaimed, hurrying over to where the woman was just emerging from behind a pile of Inflatable Underwear. She immediately spread her arms out as if to protect the unmentionables from me, blocking my way.

“What do you want?” she asked sharply, ushering me back to the front of the store.

I used Madam Malkin as a buffer between Harry and myself for the rest of the time in the little shop, finding excuses to talk to her every time Harry leaned in to hiss, “Ginny, would you just _listen_ for a second?” in my ear. I didn’t want to hear him let me down gently and tell me all about the wonderful speculated girlfriend he was going to marry and have hundreds and thousands of cherubic angels with. I didn’t want to think about how much her funeral was going to cost me, being that I was sure they’d make me pay for it seeing as how I’d be the one that killed her.

I managed to hold him off for the rest of the day even, apparating immediately to Hermione’s once I’d gotten the tuxedos, and throwing myself at her mercy, claiming that I felt like I was doing a really horrible job as Maid of Honor and therefore needed her to give me orders. She’d taken the clothing from me immediately, piled them in Harry’s arms, and told him to take them back to his and Ron’s flat and to make sure Ron was icing his eye because if that purple circle didn’t go away before her wedding day, she was castrating him by means of a bicorn, which if he’d forgotten since he never took notes in Care of Magical Creatures, was a demonic creature that liked to eat human flesh. Harry paled at the idea and quickly apparated away, but not without a last glance at me that told me he’d far from forgotten the morning’s incident.

Hermione had then set me to work preparing the centerpieces for the reception, which involved arranging an array of different colored roses in fifteen ceramic vases. It took me the better part of the afternoon, since for one thing I kept stabbing my fingers with the thorns, and each time that happened it required the appropriate string of curses and overdramatic moaning. Then there was the fact that I had at least eight different colors of roses before me, and I had to make the arrangements actually look nice, which is a whole lot harder than it sounds, especially since I swear the pale pink ones had a conspiracy against me and were gathering on one side in order to make the arrangement look lopsided on purpose.

But mainly it took me so long because I needed to be occupied in case Harry decided to come and interrogate me. And besides that, I was busy trying to focus on anything besides that morning. I wasn’t having much luck either. You could tell by the fact that my hands were swollen from the number of times I’d pricked them on the roses’ thorns from not paying attention.

I eventually finished my task, however, and in accordance with my evasive techniques, walked the two miles back home to kill more time and avoid more Harrys. I made sure to take a nice long shower and get dressed for the rehearsal dinner slowly, and then I apparated to the women’s toilets in History Hall in order to get my bearings, peer out of the door, and assess the Dreaded One’s position so as I could avoid him further.

The rest of the night was spent eluding him, despite the fact he was employing the tactic from the night before of popping out at me from behind flower arrangements. It wasn’t that difficult since Aunt Matilda was there, and Aunt Matilda has bad eyesight and therefore had to be rescued several times from attacking ‘hooligans’ which were in actuality innocent chairs, tables, relatives, and/or the very same flower arrangements Harry was utilizing in his interrogating techniques.

Surprisingly, there was still no explosion at the second rehearsal dinner, and rather than placating Hermione to the fact, she had fallen into an overwhelming sense of impending doom. According to her, the fact that an explosion had not yet happened meant the there would obviously be an _accumulation_ of explosions, or else events comparable to explosions, at her wedding tomorrow because it was just too much to hope that there could be three consecutive occasions where the entire Weasley clan was in one room and no explosion occurred.

“Third time’s the charm,” she said, “I know because it took Ron three tries before he finally managed to propose to me. My wedding is going to be a disaster tomorrow.”

Luckily for me, a distressed bride meant that I, as Most Momentous Maid, had to comfort her. And I therefore couldn’t be bothered with interrogating Harrys. I was such a good Most Momentous Maid, in fact, that I stayed over at Hermione’s in order to comfort her on the matter, and make sure her beauty sleep was uninterrupted.

Don’t talk to me about ulterior motives. The thought that by being such a wonderful friend I could kill two trolls with one club and also be successfully protected from Harry never once crossed my mind.

…Quit looking at me like that. I mean it.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I had to deal with anything of the sort that related to Harry at all.

“Ginny,” Hermione said as she bustled into the kitchen in her dressing gown and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot I’d made. “What on earth is wrong with you?”

I looked up from the omelet I’d been making her, being that it was her wedding day and I was an exceptionally amazing Most Momentous Maid with no ulterior motives at all.

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, flipping the omelet.

Hermione scrutinized me over the top of her teacup.

“You’re up early, you’ve made a pot of tea, and now you’re frying omelets. Plus you’ve just used a politely phrased question instead of saying something to the likes of ‘what the bloody hell are you talking about?’ You’re acting odd.”

The thought that maybe I should feel vaguely pathetic seeing as how she’d just described the qualities possessed by a pleasant female and then implied that I was the exact opposite crossed my mind, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it since I had to think of a fabrication.

And it had to be loads better than the last one. Especially since it was clever Hermione I was talking to and not thickheaded Harry.

I grinned at her. “Can’t a girl change her ways temporarily in order to be an exceptional Most Momentous Maid?”

“Sure. But you can’t.”

I slid the omelet out of the pan and onto a plate, before cracking two more eggs into a bowl and stirring them furiously.

“I resent that,” I said. “Obviously I _can_ , considering I _am_.”

I poured the scrambled eggs onto the pan again.

“What are you doing?”

I looked up at Hermione. “Making omelets? I realize it might be a shock, but being Molly Weasley’s daughter, it’s sort of inherent that I know how to cook.”

“Cooking’s wonderful and all, but how much are you expecting me to eat? I’ve got to fit into my dress, you know.”

I stared at her blankly. “Huh?”

“You’ve made six omelets, Ginny.”

I stared at her blankly for a moment before looking down to the counter before me. There were six separate plates bearing six separate omelets staring back up and me.

“ _And_ ,” came Hermione’s voice, “you’re wearing an apron.”

Merlin’s flannel boxer shorts, was I really? I looked down at myself, was greeted with the sight of two tomatoes, a celery, and a marinated dead chicken carcasse smiling cheerily and waving up at me from the front of my apron, and promptly scrambled to get out of the thing and throw it across the room in a panic.

“Great scot,” I muttered, looking towards my crumpled apron. “I’m going to the loony bend.”

Hermione grabbed the plate with the hot omelet on it, removed the pan from the stove, and sat down at the kitchen table with a fork in her hand.

“Not quite,” she said. “I bet all you need to do is talk about it. So,” she popped a bite into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

I cast one more wary glance at my discarded apron before taking a plate and a cup of tea to the table to sit by Hermione. I took a bite from my omelet and decided to attempt one last fabrication. After all, third time’s the charm, right?

Right.

“Oh, it’s really nothing. I’m just excited about the wedding. Which reminds me,” I took another bite of omelet and continued. “Aren’t I the one supposed to be comforting you? You’re the bride, you know. You’re supposed to be getting cold feet right about now, which is understandable considering who you’re marrying. I’m supposed to be telling you that being chained to a man for the rest of your life, undergoing the agony of birthing his children, and then having to deal with the fact that about the time you can safely have sex with him without having to worry about getting pregnant again he can no longer function properly, really isn’t all that bad a deal.”

Hermione stopped mid-masticate and stared at me. “It’s an extraordinarily good thing that I _don’t_ have cold feet, because that speech would have sent me running out the door to Siberia to practice celibacy for the rest of my life.”

I took another bite of my omelet and shrugged. “Just telling it how it is.”

“How it is for an incurable cynic maybe, but not for me. But that’s really not the point. The point is I don’t have cold feet, you don’t have to comfort me, and you need to tell me what’s bothering you.”

I put down my fork and sighed. The girl was just so damn intuitive. It ticked me off sometimes. Made me want to squelch a bucket of Jell-O on top of her head and leave her there to suffocate.

“Really Hermione, I’m fine.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at me from across the table. “What’s Harry done?”

My jaw dropped.

“How in Agrippa’s good name did you _know that_?”

Hermione snorted. “I’m psychic,” she said. Then she rolled her eyes and took a sip of tea. “Really Ginny, it wasn’t hard to figure out. You’ve been avoiding him like the Grim since yesterday afternoon.”

I blushed and ducked my head. “Have not,” I mumbled.

“Have too.”

I glared at her.

“It’s really no use acting like a two-year-old, Ginevra. You’re going to have to tell me.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Can too.”

“Can not.”

“Can too.”

“Oh yah? How?”

“Because if you don’t, then I’m going to put a sticking charm on your chair, floo Harry, and have him come over here so you two can have a nice chat.”

I gaped at her. “You wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

She would. She could be extraordinarily evil when she wanted to be. I knew because she’d locked me in a cupboard filled with study materials over Christmas Hols in seventh year and charmed the lock not to open until I’d finished the Goblin Rebellion of 1606.

And the Goblin Rebellion of 1606 lasted until 1785.

I glared at her and crossed my arms over my chest.

“He rescued me. Twice.”

Hermione stared. “What?”

“Last night the doorknob to my bedroom came off in my hand, and so I got trapped in my room. He let me out this morning. And then the loo doorknob came off too, and so he rescued me that time as well.”

Hermione stared at me for a moment before she shook her head. “And this denotes avoiding him as if he’s a dragon with a thorn in its foot?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“So?”

“Fine. I’m floo-ing Harry.” Hermione moved towards the fireplace. I panicked.

“No! Wait, I’ll tell you the rest.” She sat back down.

“He also comforted me when I burst into tears on the floor.”

“How terrible of him.”

I glared. “I wasn’t _finished_. He comforted me when I burst into tears, and the only reason I’d burst into tears in the first place was because at the rehearsal of the rehearsal dinner he said he loved me in the same way you love someone that amuses you, and then I found out this morning he has a speculated girlfriend which he’s probably going to marry and have cherubic children with, and then after that he made me kiss him.”

Hermione had set her tea down in the middle of my explanation and was now staring at me with a distinctly irritating look on her face. Like she knew something I didn’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demanded.

Hermione just shook her head and picked her tea back up.

“Okay, let’s sort through this logically,” she said. I rolled my eyes. Of course we’d be sorting through it logically. It was Hermione, wasn’t it? She was to logic as Nicolas Flamel was to geezer. Or as Nicolas Flamel was to dead. I thought he might’ve finally kicked the cauldron a couple of months before. Either way, the analogy still works. He could be a geezer and a corpse at the same time. Easy.

“We’ll address the transgressions in order, shall we?” I only looked at her. “So, his first offense: telling you he loves you. Now, did he actually _say_ ‘Ginny, I love you in the same way you love someone that amuses you?’”

I hesitated for a beat. “Well, no, but-”

“If he didn’t actually _say_ that, then how is it he meant it that way?”

“It was _implied_.”

“How so?”

“Because he said it in a nonchalant sort of way. Like I was his _sister_ or something.”

“And you don’t want to be thought of as his sister?”

I looked at her in disgust. “Considering my thoughts would then become highly incestual, no I do not want to be thought of as his sister.”

“So you fancy him.”

“Apparently.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I think I was in prolonged denial.”

“Understandable.”

“Quite.”

We were silent for a few moments while Hermione thought. Finally, she took another sip of tea and said, “I have a hypothesis.”

I ate the last of my omelet and rolled my eyes. “How surprising.”

Hermione ignored me. “I think that, because you’ve just now realized you’ve been in prolonged denial, you’re emotions are in a highly sensitive state. Probably you feel insecure about Harry’s feelings towards you, and you’re unconsciously looking for signs to point in either direction. You’re most likely prone to jumping to the conclusion that he _does not_ have feelings for you, because you are also subconsciously afraid to let anyone become too close to you, possibly because of the emotionally distressing events in your first year, combined with the innate fear that most people feel when they fall in love. Consequently, when Harry said ‘I love you’ because it fit in the conversation as a modern idiom, you took it to mean he thought of you as a sister, and not as a potential lover.”

My teacup remained suspended halfway to my lips as I stared at the girl across from me.

“Have you ever considered quitting the job as the Unspeakable and moving to the field of Psychiatry?”

“No. Now, as for the second transgression, that only proves my point that you’re looking for signs that point away from romantic feelings. Harry _always_ has a speculated girlfriend in the media, Ginny. You know that.”

I did know that. But I also knew that sometimes they were right. They said he wore boxers in Witch Weekly once, and he did. I know because I was doing laundry at the Burrow one summer because Mum was “teaching me to be at least somewhat domestically competent,” and I’d come across a pair with dancing hinkypunks on them. The teasing had been highly amusing.

I told Hermione as much, and she told me that I was proving her point even further.

“Now,” she continued, “as for the third transgression, I think I’m going to need a few more details.”

I wrinkled my nose. “No thanks. Repressed memory.”

Hermione huffed. “Oh, honestly. Quit being so melodramatic.”

“I’m serious!”

“Are you? Must be a really awful kisser…”

I rolled my eyes. “I wouldn’t know. He didn’t kiss me back.”

Hermione snapped her head towards mine, and I pushed my tea away irritably. “So _that’s_ the crux of it,” she said.

“Ya, and the fact that first he _made_ me do it, and then he didn’t even kiss me back. Git-face.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “How, exactly, did he _make_ you kiss him?”

“He looked at me. With his eyes.”

“Mmmmm-hm,” Hermione said. “And how long, exactly, did this kiss last?”

“About two seconds.”

“Before you flipped out and ran away.”

I glowered and didn’t respond.

“So basically you didn’t give him a _chance_ to kiss you back, and in order to protect your emotions, you’ve subconsciously managed to twist the story around in order to allow yourself to feel the easier emotion of anger towards him.”

I threw my hands into the air in frustration. This woman was so infuriating sometimes. Couldn’t she just _understand_ the fact that Harry thought I was the slime emanated from a flobberworm’s backside?

“Even if he _had_ had the chance to kiss me back, he wouldn’t have done.”

“Why?”

“He has a speculated girlfriend!”

“Who is _speculated_ , by the wizard media no less, which means it’s more than highly unlikely she’s real. So that can’t be a reason. Why else?”

I fumed. “Hermione, Harry hates me. He thinks I’m the scum lining the bottom of Cornelius Fudge’s over sized toilet.”

Hermione scoffed. “Well now that’s just ridiculous.”

“It most certainly is _not_.”

“It most certainly is _too_ , Ginevra, and you know it,” Hermione said, glaring at me. “Don’t you?”

I crossed my arms and refused to look at her. “Don’t call me Ginevra,” I said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood from the table, taking both our plates to the sink. “Obviously you’ve decided to be completely stubborn about this, _as usual_ ,” she threw a look over her shoulder at me and I poked out my tongue at her. “So I’m not even going to discuss this with you anymore. All I’m going to say is that you should _talk_ to the man and let him tell you what he’s really thinking, instead of what you’ve _decided_ he’s thinking. Probably it’ll clear things up a bit.” And she punctuated her last statement by casting a Banishing Charm on the excessive number of omelets I’d cooked that morning.

“Now. We have a wedding to run,” she said, and I was swept from the room by the evil bride-chicken from hell, sulking in a way worthy of Ron Weasley himself.

The rest of the day was spent in the vicinity of beauty products and giggling girls, as we all got dressed and ready for the Big Event. I spent the first half of the day attempting to maintain my sulky attitude, but finally gave up on account of I have two X chromosomes, and that means I’m genetically programmed to go all girly when a wedding is involved. It was in this state of irritating girliness when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan.

Only it was guano, and it hit an invalid.

It started when Hermione pulled me to the side of the giggling group of bridesmaids and handed me two vials filled with a dark greenish-brown liquid. The potion she’d made with the bat shit.

“Go get two cups of tea,” she told me. “Put it in there, and then take it to Fred and George.”

I took the vials from her, fixing a grave look on my face. “And what should I tell the gentlemen is the occasion for the consumption of the tea?”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Better make it champagne, then. They won’t pass up champagne.”

I kept the grave look on my face. “Not under normal circumstances, no. But there’s a situation.”

“What sort of situation?” Hermione demanded.

“The sibling sort. They’re expecting payback from two weeks ago when they put the solution for a Levitating Lolly in my pumpkin juice and I couldn’t go to work as a result of being stuck on the ceiling.”

Hermione frowned. “Well…then…tell them it isn’t for them. Tell them it’s specifically for Harry and Ron, in celebration, and they can’t have any.”

I smiled impishly. “Perfect.”

The champagne bubbled happily in the two crystal flutes resting delicately on the silver tray I held in front of me. The mysterious potion had turned invisible once I’d poured it in the drink, and I was feeling very good about the effect it would have on my brothers. In fact, I was feeling positively _tinkly_ about it. Perhaps it had worked so far, turning invisible when it was supposed to, but whatever the guano was supposed to do would definitely be doing something decidedly bad, considering it was _not_ in fact, pure bat shit, but rather mascara.

The thought made me smile cheerily.

The two flutes tinkled together slightly, matching my tinkly mood, as I made my way up the stairs of History Hall and down the hallway to the groomsmen’s doorway. Harry was in there, of course, but considering he was in a room full of Weasley men attempting to do something in an organized fashion, I was completely confident he’d be a bit indisposed and unable to further attempt his interrogation techniques. Besides, my mood was decidedly tinkly, and it was going to be a hard job making it stop tinkling. Since it was tinkly. As it were.

I grinned once again at the thought of the tinkliness and raised my hand to knock on the door, when it was suddenly flung open before me.

“—to be alright, Ron. Hermione’s a nice girl, you’ll be very happy together.” My father was standing just inside the door to the right, speaking soothingly to Ron, who was heaving in great gulping breaths of air before me, one hand on the doorknob and the other on the frame.

“Ya Ron,” came Harry’s voice, further inside the room. “Remember how much you were telling me you loved her last night? You talked about it for _three hours_.”

“Which is exactly the amount of time per day you will have to listen to her nagging! What a coincidence, eh George?”

George appeared from the left side of the doorway to pat Ron on the back heartily.

“Corking coincidence, dear Fred. And it’s even more amazing since it’s also the exact amount of time he _won’t_ be spending shagging her, since he’ll be on the couch every other night!” George turned to me. “Hiya Ginners.”

“Hi,” I said, keeping my eyes on my panic-stricken brother in the doorway. “Champagne?” I held the tray towards George.

“Lovely!” he proclaimed, and reached for the flute on the tray.

And that’s when Sod struck again, and the bat shit hit the invalid.

“Champagne?” Ron croaked, snapping his head up from where it had been hanging between his shoulders in an effort to stop hyperventilating. “Mine.”

And with that, before I could even widen my eyes in panic, he’d knocked George’s hand out of the way and grabbed a flute from the tray, draining it in less than a second.

“Really,” Fred said, acting scandalized.

“How terribly rude,” George added, looking with disapproval at Ron, who was setting the flute back onto the tray.

I stood frozen in place, one hand holding the tray, and the other still poised in the air ready to knock on the door. In my abject frozen horror, I couldn’t react as Ron quickly grabbed the other flute, and drained that one as well.

“Well,” said Dad, “Good thing it wasn’t enough to make him completely inebriated.”

“Too bad,” said George. Fred nodded his head in agreement.

“I would have enjoyed the beautiful sound of shrill yelling in the evening.”

“Can’t beat it,” agreed George.

“One of a kind,” added Fred.

“Like iced pumpkin juice on a hot summer’s day,” they said in union.

They shut the door again, dragging a dazed looking Ron back inside, and I stared at the empty champagne flutes on my tray, listening to the tinkles of my mood fade away at a remarkably accelerated rate. I had a feeling I was about to enter into the fiery chasms of doom and destruction. And that it would quite possibly involve the removal of my ears by means of shrill yelling on a winter’s evening and probably a demonic flesh-eating bicorn.

_Just in case, the bit in this chapter where Harry tells Ginny to say "Wizard" was my creative wizarding world way for him to be saying "Say Uncle," if you didn't figure it out. Saying Uncle is the same thing as saying "I give up," but you probably already knew that._

**_Review, loo-hoos! Don't forget to check out the Yahoo! Group!_** **_(And also, I'm completely desperate. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to center on this site. I've tried everything, and it always ends up showing the coding! If anyone can help, I'd be eternally grateful._**

**_Toodles!_ **

**_-h_**


	14. Knocking the Groom Dead

**A/N: This fic went on hiatus for quite a while. It is now, however, up and running once again. This chapter until chapter 20 were written last year but were not posted on this site. Any chapter that appears after chapter 20 is recently-written. Obviously, after the release of DH, this story is no longer canon. But honestly, it's so ridiculous it's practically a parody, so was it ever really canon in the first place? Just go with the flow, people, go with the flow. Happy reading!**

Knocking the Groom Dead

Impending doom has a corporeal form. It's that of a wooden door viewed in dim light, made of three vertical rectangular pieces of wood, polished red with candle flames flickering off the varnish, closed about three inches in front of your nose.

It's heavy, and it makes a very loud, great booming noise when it's closed on your face. Rather like a prison cell door closing. Or like a prison cell door opening, but for the last time because they've come to lead you to the death chamber.

I was currently staring at the corporeal form of impending doom in horror. Nothing would open that door; it even had iron hinges. The thing was fortified. Fortified, heavy, and closed. And if I stared at it long enough, my eyes wide and panicked, a shape would emerge from the patterns of the wood like a reflection stilling in a rippling pond, and stare me down in evil, sadistic mockery.

It looked like Hermione's head. Only she had sprouted two pointed horns and her eyes were morphed into two black holes of evil with flames roaring in the center. Plus a pitchfork in one talon. Talon, I say, because in that door, hidden beneath the swirling shapes in the wood, was the real form of impending doom: the bride-chicken from hell.

I whimpered and the silver tray holding the two empty crystal champagne flutes slipped from my fingers. The sound of shattering glass fit my mood perfectly, and I looked down at the shards of the delicate glass and saw a perfect metaphor for my life as I knew it.

Shattered. Ruined. Destroyed. Devastated completely and totally.

In a word: Doomed.

I contemplated the amount of pain and suffering I would have to go through should I attempt to commit suicide with the shattered shards of glass at my feet, and then I contemplated the unhealthiness of having so many suicidal thoughts as I'd been having of late, and as I did all this contemplating, I decided I'd continue to stare in resignation at the corporeal form of impending doom some more. That way, if I was keeping an eye on impending doom, it wouldn't be able to convert into arising doom without my noticing. And then I could be prepared. Somewhat. It was the best plan I had at the time, and so I lifted my head to carry it through.

Only instead of a wooden sixteenth century door entering my line of sight, it was the face of a bespectacled man wearing a tuxedo.

"I heard glass shatter," Harry said, looking at me in concern. "Are you alright?"

I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment and thought about his question. Was I alright? Sure. If contemplating suicide via shattered champagne flutes and staring impending doom in the face denotes being alright, then yes, I'm peachy keen, Harry thank you. However, in all my absolute terror I couldn't seem to find the ability to control my mouth to the extent needed to voice all that, and so I merely whispered the honest, straight, short-and-to-the-point truth.

"I'm doomed," I managed, in a hoarse voice.

Harry frowned. "What?"

"I'm doomed," I repeated. "Completely. Without question."

Harry was still frowning. Then he looked down at our feet, saw the shattered champagne flutes and silver tray, and his eyes widened.

"Oh, shit," he said, "You _are_ doomed. Do you realize that was Hermione's best crystal?"

I blinked at his statement and was momentarily relieved of my all-consuming panic, in that I now had to feel a whole lot of confusion.

"Hermione's best crystal?"

"Yeah."

"How in the absolute hell do you know that?"

Harry looked up at me and blushed. "Ron said," he muttered.

" _Ron_ said?" That made even less sense than his first statement.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Said Hermione's mum came over to her flat the other day to give it to her. Family heirloom or some such thing."

I stared at him.

"Champagne flutes are considered family heirlooms?"

Harry looked down again at the shattered glass. He frowned, bent down, and picked up a thick shard that looked to be the former base of the flute, where the stem was previously attached. It had delicate engravings on it, and little pyramids of glass poked out from its smooth surface in a complicated pattern. Harry turned it over in his palm.

"If they're Waterford Crystal champagne flutes, I'd say yes, probably that would be considered a family heirloom."

I leaned forward and examined the delicate glass in Harry's palm.

"What's Wattsford Crystal?" I asked, peering closer at the glass in his palm and noticing that in between two finely carved pyramids there was engraved an intricate star. It looked complicated.

"Waterford," Harry glanced up at me warily. "Muggle thing," he said, but his voice suggested it was a bit more than just a thing. I narrowed my eyes.

"What sort of Muggle thing?"

Harry looked a bit sympathetically at me. "The expensive sort."

"How expensive?"

Perhaps it was my tone of voice, but Harry seemed to be getting a bit uncomfortable. He brought a hand to the back of his neck and hissed air between his teeth before he answered.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm not really good at that sort of thing. So used to Wizarding money now, and all..." he trailed off as I narrowed my eyes at him some more.

"Why don't you guestimate, Harry?"

Harry winced. "Well, I'd say, for both of those...somewhere around a hundred Galleons."

I gaped at him. " _A hundred Galleons_?"

"Well, give or take a few. It's just, Waterford's already really expensive stuff, and then if it's an heirloom you have to add the antiquity value to it. My best guess is around a hundred. But I'm no expert, so..." He looked at me in a way that suggested he was trying to allow me some hope.

It wasn't working.

"Are you sure those were Watts-thingers, Harry? Couldn't you be mistaken? I mean, how do you know all this stuff anyways?" My questions were rapid-fire in desperation, and Harry took a fraction of a step backwards.

"Aunt Petunia had a Waterford collection she never shut up about when company was over. Wouldn't let me near it with a thirty foot broomstick. Said it was worth more than ten of me put together," he said, looking behind him into the room full of groomsmen.

"Then again," he mentioned vaguely, "I don't think she valued me very highly anyways, so maybe ten of me isn't worth that much in her book." He frowned slightly with these words and cut his eyes towards the center of the room. All the groomsmen were occupied alternately attempting to figure out their Muggle tuxedoes and throwing encouragements towards Ron, who was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room looking rather wan and panicky. Fred and George had their cumberbunds wrapped about their heads and were pretending to be Professor Quirrel, and Charlie was telling Bill that if he didn't want to be skinned alive, he should probably consider taking out the fang earring. Harry seemed to decide that no one would miss him, and so he grabbed the iron handle and gently pulled the heavy door closed.

"Listen, Ginny," he started, turning around to face me. He took my shoulders in his hands and looked me in the eye. "We've really got to talk."

I stared up into his face blankly for a moment, before the memories that had been ousted from my head in lieu of panic and doom came back in full, and I felt a blush begin to creep up my neck. Years of experience with my own capillaries, however, allowed me the ability to quell the blushing, and I merely looked up at him very seriously.

"You're right," I said, and his whole body seemed to relax a bit at my words. He let go of one of my shoulders to run a hand through his hair, and I took the opportunity to continue. "Because both of our lives are in grave danger, and that requires some discussion."

Harry's hand stopped half way through his hair and he looked at me somewhat blankly.

"Our lives..." he repeated faintly, staring down at me in bewilderment.

"Are in grave danger, yes," I continued. "And that means we need to discuss how to get them out of said grave danger. Personally, I think we should run away to Majorca and cut all ties from the Wizarding World, but before I act too rashly, I thought I'd ask your opinion."

Harry stared at me some more, his hand still in his hair. "Majorca?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, Majorca. Supposed to be wonderful this time of year. Very warm."

Harry continued to stare at me for a moment, before he finally removed his hand from his hair and shook his head as if to clear it. It seemed to have some effect, because his next question was, "Hold on a second, back up. Why are our lives in danger again?"

"Besides because we just broke Hermione's family heirloom, and no _Reparo_ spell is going to fix something that complicated, you mean?"

Harry spluttered. " _We_?" he started, but I cut him off, telling him the whole sordid tale from the beginning. From the botch-up with the mascara instead of real guano, to the decapitated praying mantis, to the knife in the wall, to the final product in the champagne Ron had just downed in two seconds flat.

"-and so unless we fix this _right now_ , we're both going to be deader than Merlin's left pinky toe-nail. And that's not to mention the severely agonizing torture we'll have to go through beforehand. Hermione mentioned bicorns, and from what I remember about Care of Magical Creatures, bicorns are not very friendly creatures."

I finished with a decisive nod and an expectant look on my face. Harry was standing in front of me, gaping like a grindylow out of water, and I decided he might need some help snapping out of it.

So I smacked his head. Not hard enough to hurt. Just so his glasses were skewed a bit.

" _Ow_ ," he said, grabbing his head. "What was that for?"

"Stop gaping like an idiot and help me figure out a solution!"

Harry looked at me incredulously. "Solution?" he said, sounding rather hysterical. He started pacing in front of me.

"I don't know what kind of solution you think there is to this problem, but I'd love to hear it. You've _poisoned_ the groom, Ginny!"

I made a furious noise in the back of my throat and stamped a foot. " _Excuse me_? Last time I checked that potion was not my idea! We're about to die at Hermione's very capable hands, and you're sitting here killing the messenger!"

Emotions were getting high. Perhaps because of the fact that both of us were severely terrified of Hermione Granger.

Or maybe it was repressed sexual tension. On my side, at least. A combination?

Sure.

Harry threw his hands into the air. "Oh, I'm _so sorry_ I'm angry about this since the messenger just _poisoned_ the bleeding groom! And why do you keep saying 'we'? I have absolutely no part in this."

Harry turned at that and made for the doorway. I grabbed the back of his jacket and whipped him around.

"Oh, you do so have a part in this, you great buffoon! Last time I checked you were the Best Man, and it's the Best Man's job to keep any sort of alcohol at least five hundred metres from the groom at all times!"

Harry snorted. "Who says?"

"It's unwritten law," I gritted through my teeth.

"That's completely ridiculous!"

" _You're_ completely ridiculous!"

"I'm not the one who just _poisoned_ her own brother!"

"I didn't _mean_ to. Plus, _you_ shouldn't have let him drink it!"

"How was I supposed to know you'd _poisoned_ it!?"

"I didn't _mean_ to, for Merlin's sake!"

"No one _poisons_ people anymore, Ginny! It's completely tactless."

"You want to talk about tact, Harry? How about we talk about this effing Inflatable Bra you made me wear?"

"You're just trying to get the subject away from the fact that you've _poisoned_ the groom!"

"Would you _stop_ emphasizing the word _poisoned_?"

"Would _you_ stop trying to blame this on _me_?"

"Would you _both_ stop causing such a ruckus in the middle of the corridor? I have something to say."

The foreign voice startled us both, and we whipped around to face the opposite wall, breathing heavily. Sometime during the course of the whipping, I'd instinctually grabbed Harry's forearm, and when I realized what I'd done, I quickly let go and wiped my hand on the top of my ridiculously huge velvet hoop skirt as if I'd just touched one of the pustules on Neville's mimbulus. Harry rolled his eyes at me before facing the opposite wall again. There was a portrait there of a rather fat woman with an excessively large white wig atop her head and two very pink circles of blusher adorning each cheek. She looked somewhat flustered; her wig seemed to be a bit disheveled, sitting cati-cornered atop her head. She huffed and smoothed down the front of her frilly silk robes, and then looked across the hall at Harry and me.

"Thank you," she said, nodding at us. Then she turned towards me. "One of your bosoms has deflated, my dear."

She reached up and pushed her wig to where she apparently thought it was centered, though it only served to cause the wig to wobble a bit, and fall to the other side of her head in disarray. She hiccupped.

"Thought you might like to know," she concluded. Then she nodded, curtsied in a distinctly off-balance manner, and wobbled out of the frame.

"What is it with portraits and drinking problems?" Harry muttered to himself, staring at the blank canvas across from us. I gaped at him.

"Pardon?" I said, poking him in the upper arm aggressively. "I don't think I heard you correctly. Are you wondering about trivial things while there is obviously a much bigger issue to deal with here?"

Harry rubbed his arm and scowled at me. "What, you mean like the fact that you've _poisoned_ the groom?"

"For the love of Merlin, would you _please_ stop emphasizing the word _poison_!" I yelled at him, and then I blew out a breath of air and continued. "And yes, I do mean the fact that the groom's poisoned, but then there's also the small issue of your involvement with my boob."

There was a bang as the impending doom door opened and slammed against the wall, and Ron was suddenly swaying before us.

" _Stop right there_!" he exclaimed, pointing to me unsteadily. He turned to Harry. "What have you been doing to my sister's boob?" Here he narrowed his eyes accusingly at Harry, before lunging in an exceptionally out of control manner towards his Best Man.

Harry side-stepped him easily, due to the fact Ron was about two feet off the mark, and threw an arm around Ron's middle to control him.

"I didn't do anything to Ginny's boob," he told the flailing Ron.

I snorted and folded my arms across my lopsided chest. Ron, who was now hanging double over Harry's arm pointed up at me suddenly when I snorted, turned his finger to point at Harry, pointed to me again, and finally unsteadily jabbed at Harry again.

"Then _why_ ," he wanted to know, "did she _say_ you did? Huh? Can you tell me _that_?"

Harry glared at me before grunting and hoisting Ron up a bit higher, since he was now sliding down Harry's leg like a giant freckled noodle.

"I didn't touch Ginny's boob, Ron," he said again, a bit exasperatedly. Ron let out a "Ha!" of disbelief and Harry rolled his eyes. "She's just angry because it deflated."

Ron blinked up at Harry for a moment, his mouth hanging open, before he finally said, "They can _do_ that?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but I cut him off before he could say anything.

"Oh, for Godric's sake," I said, and I pulled my wand out from between my lopsided breasts. "Stupefy!" I yelled, pointing my wand at Ron. He immediately went limp in Harry's grip.

Harry stared at him. "You just stupefied the groom," he proclaimed, disbelief woven into his voice.

"Of course I did. How else did you think we'd get him to shut up?"

"But...but..." Harry leaned Ron up against the wall and stood up. "But you _stupefied_ him!"

"Here we go with the emphasizing of the action verbs again."

Harry stood rooted to the spot. "Ginny," he said, "I really think you ought to seek professional help."

I ignored the comment.

"Okay, so what are we going to do?"

Harry looked incredulous. "We?"

"Yes, we."

"And what makes you think I'm going to help you with this? I've known Hermione for twelve years, Ginny, five of those being during a war, and that means I know what she's capable of doing to a person."

I looked at him. He had a good point. A very good point. In fact, that point was rather inarguable. I'd been there the time Hermione'd finally captured Bellatrix Black. She'd trussed her up with conjured metal chains, levitated her as high as possible, and banged her against the ground until she went unconscious, finally conjuring a tub of Stinging Flobberworms above the Death Eater's unconscious body and unceremoniously dumping them on her. And then she'd said, "That was for all the emotional scarring you put Harry through."

If she'd done all that just for emotional scarring, there was no telling what she'd do if she found out I'd accidentally poisoned her extremely-soon-to-be husband.

So, I decided to beg.

"Please Harry," I said, widening my eyes imploringly. "You've got to help me. You can't just leave me here to die. You're not like that. _Please_."

Harry looked at me from the corner of his eyes. My lower lip began to tremble. He sighed. I let out an internal whoop of victory. Womanly connivances never fail.

"Fine," he said. "But on one condition."

"Anything."

"You promise to talk to me about this morning after the wedding."

Yes, okay, anything but that.

I froze, my mouth hanging open. "Ah...well...see...I don't really thin-"

"Fine. I promise to bring flowers to your funeral. Any preferences?"

He was looking at me with a distinctly victorious countenance. That is, before he turned around altogether and started for the door.

Damn him.

"Fine," I said, slumping as I did so. Harry turned back to me cheerfully.

"Shake on it, then," he said, and held out a hand.

_Damn him_. He was closing all my escape routes. Twenty-one years with six brothers taught a person to always shake on a deal if you wanted any chance of it actually happening.

And so, I turned to my next available option: I crossed my fingers.

...And my toes.

I clasped Harry's outstretched hand, and when I made to shake it, he held it firm.

"Uncross your fingers, Ginny."

I glared at him, but removed my hand from behind my back to show him a splayed hand.

"And your toes."

Oh, the man was infuriating!

But, all the same, considering I was a desperate woman, I rolled my eyes and reached my free hand down to gather my mounds of velvet and lace up, step out of my heels, and wiggle my toes around for him to see.

"Happy now?" I asked.

Harry smiled, "Quite."

"Good, now inflate my boob before we go any further, please."

Despite the fact this was Harry Potter I was talking to, the boy I'd fancied the pants off of for forever and a day, and the boy I'd spontaneously kissed that morning, I found I could quite manage to voice statements such as the above with no trouble at all. I think it might have had something to do with my life being in grave danger. But maybe it was just because I was so used to Sod's personal vendetta against me by that time, that I'd become so incurably cynical as to not even be fazed by trivial things such as a deflated boob.

Harry, however, was blushing to the roots of his hair.

"Erm...um...h-...how? Does one go about...inflating a boob?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes at him. "You're a wizard, aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but...I mean, can't you do it?"

I looked at him blandly. "Second year I tried to cast a freckle-be-gone spell on myself and ended up with purple hair and tentacles. I haven't pointed the tip of my own wand towards myself since," I said monotonously. "Besides, you're the reason I'm in this bloody contraption in the first place, if you'll remember."

I neglected to mention that I was the reason he'd been pacing around with a rather odd gate these past few minutes. He really didn't need to know about my alterations to his pants measurements.

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Oh yeah," he said, before pointing his wand at my chest and inflating my bosom.

"Thank you," I said.

"No problem," he said.

We stood facing each other awkwardly. Until, that is, we were interrupted by a frantic Susan Bones running down the hall.

"Ginny!" she exclaimed, running towards me hysterically. "Ginny, Hermione says...Is that _Ron_?"

Harry smacked his palm against his forehead, I stepped back into my heels and tried to look unconcerned, and Susan positively gaped at the limp form of Ron leaning against the wall. I glanced over at Harry to see him looking at me in a way that gave me the distinct impression he was wanting to know just how, exactly, I thought this was going to work out.

Finally, I moved over in front of Susan to block her view of the stunned Ron. Once again, I'll mention the fact I've lived twenty-one years with six brothers, and I therefore know how to come up with a reasonably good fabrication in seventeen seconds or less.

We'll neglect to remember the fiascos of the day before, shall we? I do admit claiming Arnold was deceased when he was perched on my shoulder was not my best work. However, seeing as how I was not currently sitting in the Boy-Who-Lived's lap, I thought perhaps I could think of a better one.

"Ah...well...see...yes, well...No," I told Susan, who was now on her tiptoes trying to look over my shoulder at Ron.

"It _isn_ 't Ron?" she said, lowering herself onto her heels and looking at me skeptically.

"Nuh-uh," I said, trying to lead her back down the hall away from Harry and Ron. She wasn't having any of it.

"Well then who is it?"

Bollocks. Since when did Susan Bon- I'm sorry, Macmillan- become so un-Hufflepuff-like? She wasn't supposed to be asking astute questions. She was supposed to be trusting and loyal so that I could easily manipulate her.

Not that I acted that Slytherinly normally. It was just, you know...desperate times. I decided that maybe pregnancy in Susan Bon- geez, Macmillan, Merlin that's bizarre- was not a good thing for me.

"Erm..." I said, ignoring Harry as he gave me a frantic look that was obviously meant to inform me that if I didn't come up with a decent fabrication we were more than dead. I thought fast.

"Rita Skeeter," I decided. Harry smacked his head again.

Shit.

Susan snapped her head the look at me. "The annoying reporter?"

Well, I couldn't very well back out now. The trick to saving a botched fabrication is to just keep barreling along. And so, I barreled.

"Yes, the annoying reporter."

Susan squinted down at Ron from over my shoulder.

"That doesn't really look like Rita Skeeter..." she observed.

"Well, that's because she's Polyjuiced."

"Polyjuiced?"

"Yep," I nodded. Susan looked bewildered.

"But...but...why?"

Harry gave me another look from behind Susan. It seemed he wanted to know why Rita Skeeter had Polyjuiced herself to look like Ron as well. I poked my tongue out at him quickly before turning back to Susan, and grabbing her arm to lead her back down the hallway.

"Oh, you know how she is. This is a high-profile wedding after all, and she never misses an opportunity to try and find something unsavory to say about Harry."

"But Harry's not getting married. Ron is."

 

"Yes dear, but she's on this kick about how Harry's in love with Hermione- remember all that stuff in their fourth year, with the Triwizard Tournament?- and so now she's saying the love of Harry's life is gallivanting off with his best friend and he's once again the tragic orphan."

Harry snorted from behind us, but Susan didn't hear it because she was too busy gasping and running back down the hallway. Harry's eyes widened as she neared and threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, you poor _thing_ ," she exclaimed, bursting into tears on his shoulder. Harry looked at me in panic. "I had no idea you felt that way!"

Susan continued to sob on Harry's shoulder as he awkwardly patted her on the back.

"Erm, it's alright, Susan," he said. "I don't feel that way about Hermione."

Susan leaned back to scrutinize him. "You don't?"

Harry shook his head. Susan looked back at me, her eyes welling up.

"Oh, _Ginny_ ," she lamented, "The poor thing's in denial."

Harry looked rather offended at having been called a 'poor thing' twice in as many minutes and opened his mouth to protest.

"Ah, well," I cut him off. "You know how it is."

Susan nodded emphatically as Harry glared at me, and she turned back to straighten his glasses and smooth his hair.

"Now don't you worry, Harry dear," she said, licking her thumb and using it to wipe at a nonexistent spot on Harry's cheek. He jerked back incredulously. "We'll find you someone special so you can forget about Hermione and move on with your life, won't we Ginny?"

I put a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. "Erm...yeah. Sure," I said, refusing to look at Harry lest I burst into hysterical laughter. He growled faintly, and I reckoned it was directed at me.

Susan looked alarmed. "Now Harry!" she reprimanded, "I know this whole situation must make you very angry, but you must learn to control your emotions better than that. Growling at people is very rude!"

I whipped away from them and doubled over, desperately attempting not to laugh. Apparently Susan's motherly instincts were making themselves known a bit early. Finally, I turned back to see Harry nodding a bit bewilderedly at Susan and her patting him on top of the head like he were a small child. Then she turned to me and her hands started fluttering.

"Oh no!" she said, running over to me to flutter her hands about my head. "Ginny, what are you going to do about Miss Skeeter?"

I leaned back from her and grabbed her hands to keep them from fluttering.

"Erm...well...Harry's taking care of it, aren't you Harry?" I looked at him briefly and didn't give him a chance to respond. "Good then. So, what was it you wanted to tell me, Susan?"

I led Susan back down the hallway again and looked over my shoulder as she informed me Hermione wanted to know the status of our operation and also wondered why I hadn't picked up my bouquet yet and also if I'd triple checked to make sure everyone knew not to do magic since most of Hermione's relatives thought she went to a prestigious Muggle boarding school in eastern Scotland. Harry was gaping after us, and I widened my eyes at the inert form of Ron and waved a hand at him as if to snap him into movement.

"Fix him!" I mouthed to Harry.

He held up his hands exasperatedly. "How?" he mouthed back.

"I don't know! Just do it!" mouthed me.

"HOW, GINNY?" Harry roar-mouthed.

"FIGURE IT OUT!" I returned, nearing the corner with Susan. "Go! Now!" I finished mouthing, and I saw Harry rub a hand over his face with frustration before turning to Ron and pulling out his wand before Susan and I disappeared around the corner.

I sighed in relief and tuned Susan's aimless rambling out as we wended our way through History Hall to a room in the back corner filled with squealing girls and beauty products. I quickly implored of Susan to keep from mentioning the Polyjuiced Rita Skeeter as I didn't want to ruin Hermione's big day, and she nodded emphatically, before we were both swept into the room. Hermione saw us immediately and came over quickly, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil trailing her.

"Wait a minute, Hermione!" said Lavender, "We aren't finished with your hair!"

I thanked every deity I'd ever heard of for Lavender and Parvati as Hermione huffed exasperatedly and stopped so Parvati could hurry over with her wand, pick up a strand of hair hanging out of the delicate, sleek mass of curls atop Hermione's head and curl it around her wand. Lavender plucked a white daisy from a flower arrangement to their side and tucked it behind Hermione's ear as Parvati let the curl unwind from her wand.

"There," they said in unison, "Perfect."

And they were right. Hermione looked absolutely stunning in a simple silk white dress that draped over her hips delicately and fluttered in ripples as she walked. Thin straps rested on her shoulders elegantly and she wore simple white ballet slippers on her feet. Her mum, an older version of herself except with slightly darker hair, came up behind her and attached a silver chain to her neck with a teardrop blue pendant hanging from it.

"And something blue," Hermione's mum said briskly, coming around in front of her daughter. "The pearl earrings were mine, so that's something old, and the silver bracelet we bought yesterday is something new. Are we forgetting anything? You haven't seen Ron in the last twenty-four hours, have you?"

I saw now where Hermione got her penchant for making lists. Hermione and her mum stood talking over everything they could possibly think of wedding related, from whether all the flowers had gotten there to if the flower girl, who was Hermione's youngest cousin, had enough petals in her basket. They reckoned fifty one should be enough. Eventually I was attacked and reprimanded from Parvati and Lavender for not wearing my Inflatable bra proudly.

"Hike it up, Parvati," Lavender ordered, and Parvati came up from behind me and hoisted my bra up a few notches.

"Hey!" I complained, "Quit molesting me!"

Lavender rolled her eyes as she unzipped my velvet monstrosity and pulled the strings of my corset tighter. I squeaked as my boobs nearly popped out the top of my dress and smacked me in the face.

"Merlin," I said in a high-pitched squeak, lifting my hands to try and push my boobs back down a bit. "Do you expect me to _breathe_?"

"No," they said together, and then Lavender zipped me back up and they moved to their next victim. I was left to stare at myself in the mirror in their wake, looking absolutely horrified.

My hair was piled into a massive up-do on top of my head, somewhat reminiscent of the drunk portrait Harry and I had encountered, only bright red. My boobs were pushed up practically to my chin, and the Inflatable Bra was making them look somewhat like two wizard's hats pointing out of my chest. I couldn't even see half my dress because it was extending past both sides of the mirror, and I was standing in such a way as to make one think I might have a board stuck up my behind.

Which was fairly close. The corset had metal rods in the sides of it.

I only ceased staring at myself in horror when the mirror decided to wheeze in a cough and inform me that, "my bosoms seemed to be uneven." Then I turned and went to find my flower bouquet, cursing Harry and his unsatisfactory bosom-inflating skills.

Thankfully I managed to avoid Hermione for the amount of time we stayed in the room preparing for the ceremony. It wasn't particularly difficult since she was constantly surrounded by women exclaiming how gorgeous she looked, which she did, and if I ever got close enough to speak to her, all I had to do was exclaim with the rest of them over what a beautiful bride she made. By the time we were set to leave, Hermione was looking distinctly suspicious over my behavior. No doubt she'd expected me to complain over how she got to wear a gorgeous silken dress while I had to wear a velvet and lace monstrosity, and I had.

It'd just been internal. I'd decided I needed to earn as many brownie points as possible in case she discovered how I'd poisoned her soon-to-be husband.

And so the entire party of green velvet cupcakes and Hermione left the room in the back corner of History Hall ten minutes before the ceremony started. There were a few close calls with vases and candelabras and such as our massive skirts were only about an inch shy of the entire width of the corridor, but we managed to make it down in one piece. The excited squeals and exclamations softened into muted, whispered excited squeals and exclamations as we lined up, and I nervously stood before the doors to the large hall where I hoped Ron was waiting for his bride.

Consciously. Please Merlin, let him be conscious.

The music started and I heard Parvati whisper excitedly, "You'll knock him dead, Hermione!"

I barely had time to wince at the irony before the doors were opened majestically, and I was greeted with a site that nearly made my heart leap out of my chest and writhe on the floor in its death throes.

There, at the end of the aisle, stood Harry and all the Weasley men, with Ron standing in front of them.

Only, he looked a little stiff. I snapped my eyes to Harry, who was standing behind Ron with an extremely fixed-looking smile on his face and a distinctly panicked look in his eyes, the tip of his wand just showing pointed at Ron from behind Harry's back leg. It was obvious to whoever was looking for it that Harry had cast the petrificus totalus on my brother.

And, after I exchanged panicked glances with Harry, after I hiked my own extremely-fixed looking smile to my face, after I'd taken two steps down the aisle, I noticed something entirely more disturbing than the fact the groom was practically petrified.

Ronald Bilius Weasley, soon-to-be husband of one, perhaps-one-day father of more, my brother, Harry's best friend, and Hermione's poisoned groom, was floating a half an inch off the floor.

_Yellow daisies_ , I thought outrageously, _I should have told Harry to bring yellow daisies to my funeral._


	15. Telepathic Explosions

Telepathic Explosions

I've never had the unique and most often life-ending experience of running through a gauntlet of savages wielding war axes, but if I had, I think I would have preferred it to walking down the flower lined aisle in the middle room of History Hall. Perhaps it was the many years I spent running around dodging curses during The War, but something inside me that had nothing to do with my panicking mind was allowing me to remain on my feet, smiling fixedly and staring straight ahead, instead of crying helplessly, whipping out my wand, and apparating to the middle of the Sahara Desert in order to delay Hermione's wrath for a few days.

There was, however, something inside me that had everything to do with my panicking mind that had me furiously attempting telepathy with one Harry James Potter.

_Are you daft!? Why the **hell** havent you enervated him!?_ I thought ferociously at the man standing nervously at the end of the aisle, my eyes fixed on his face. Harry merely continued to stare at me in a panic, and I got the distinct impression that even if he could hear my telepathic thought, he wouldn't have had an answer.

But, seeing as how I'm extremely stubborn, and I had only one plan and that was telepathy, and if I accepted the fact that was a bad plan I'd then have to leave my comforting state of denial and have a bout of hysteria that would land me completing my day by admitting myself into St. Mungo's Psyche Ward, I continued to think fiercely at him.

_ENERVATE HIM_! I mind screamed. _THIS INSTANT_!

 

There was no sign from Harry that he heard my mind exclamation, and so I managed to calm myself enough to breathe somewhat normally in an attempt to be cool and collected during a crisis. Of course, it wasn't working entirely much, as I was squeezing my bouquet of flowers so fiercely that the water left in their stems was slowly trickling down my fingers, but I was managing not to turn tail and run out the door, and so I thought that was a check in the pro column of my life. If there was a pro column left in my life, that is.

I got even to Harry, and hissed at him from the corner of my mouth. "Enervate him, you idiot!"

Harry kept his eyes fixed firmly on the doorway to the Hall, pretending to be happily awaiting the bride of his best mate, and hissed right back.

"Can't. Undesirable reaction."

I'd walked up the small stairs to the altar and turned facing him by this point, and I made sure not to move my fake-smiling lips as I responded.

"What kind of undesirable reaction?"

"Screaming. Flailing. Chudley Cannons."

" _Chudley Cannons_?" I asked, forgetting to keep my face a mask of Most Momentous Maid happiness. Harry's eyes cut to me sharply in warning and I fixed the smile back onto my face.

"Yes," Harry hissed. "Thinks he's getting all their autographs."

I struggled to keep the bafflement from my face.

"But they're not even _here_."

"Tell that to the candelabra on the second floor," he said simply, and my eyes widened as I turned back to see Luna making her way up the aisle dreamily, the last bride's maid. An image of a door made of three rectangular slabs of red wood popped into my mind, only this time it flew open abruptly and smacked me in the face. Hard.

The doom was arising. And fast.

I knew because the priest was picking his nose. Priests at wedding ceremonies have absolutely no business picking their noses. It's extremely bad luck. Everyone knows this. It's universally acknowledged among the wedding-goers of the world.

But, even more importantly than the nose picking priest, I knew that doom was arising because Ron's head had lolled to the side, causing Harry to give a little start and jab his wand at him, me to wince and widen my eyes at Harry significantly, and Hermione Jane Granger (soon-to-be Weasley) to exercise her amazing talent of speaking without making a sound as she entered into the middle room of History Hall and spied her waiting fianc with his lolling head.

_Explain_ , her eyes said as they snapped up to me from Ron's lolling head feet.

Despite the fact I was completely amazed by her telepathic talent, I managed to respond by widening my eyes innocently and attempting to look baffled. I did _not_ want to explain to her why her future husband was doing a remarkably convincing job of imitating Nearly Headless Nick on one of his bad neck days.

The innocent ploy might've worked had Ron not let out a rather large snore at that moment. The priest blinked at him from behind spectacles thick as the bottom of a cauldron bottom and removed his finger from his nose.

_Death_ , Hermione was mind-speaking to me. _Slow and painful. No escape. Unadulterated agony. Torture._

If I hadn't been extremely afraid for my life, I might have been impressed. Especially since she was telepathizing death threats to me while looking like an angel from heaven gliding down the aisle.

Or, she looked like an angel from heaven until her eyes fixed on Ronald Bilius again and she noticed that not only was his head lolling about like some sort of sick puppet, but he was also floating two inches from the floor. Then she looked like a demon from hell, being that her eyes caught fire. I saw my life flash before my mind. This was the beginning of the end. I was dead. So was Harry. And as we both looked at each other over Ron's limp shoulder, we didn't need Hermione's impressive telepathic powers to know what the other was thinking.

Shit, was the word, I think, but I can't be entirely positive as I think I might have made up a curse word of my own at that moment, something infinitely more profane than just a mere 'shit,' and I think Harry might have done the same. Severe panic and fear for your life tends to make a person infinitely more creative in the swear-word department than on a normal day. Our mothers would have heart attacks if they only knew telepathy.

My life expectancy was shot to hell as Hermione and her father finally made it to the end of the aisle, and she spied Harry's wand peeking out from behind his leg. The excessively large flower arrangement perched atop the marble pedestal behind the priest shuddered slightly, and a thin trail of smoke emerged from its heavily scented depths like a slithering black garter snake. This seemed to me a very bad sign, and I expressed this opinion by snapping my head towards Harry.

" _Do something_ ," I whispered frantically, tilting my head stiffly towards the now full-out glaring bride. Harry nodded shortly and twitched his wand a bit. Ron turned ninety degrees and floated stiffly over towards Hermione. I winced as Harry didn't quite measure the distance right, and my brother bounced off Hermione's side rather abruptly before shuddering slightly and then going still.

" _What_ ," Hermione hissed at me out of the corner of her mouth, whilst grabbing Ron's stiff arm and steadying him beside her, "have you _done_?"

I tittered nervously. "Done?" I wondered, as the priest started talking about brethren and gathering in happiness and hell-holy matrimony. "Haven't done anything," I said.

Hermione has amazing talents. Not only can she spend seven hours in a library and not get in the remotest sense bored; not only can she stun and bind twelve Death Eaters in the span of six minutes and still have time to nag Harry and Ron; not only can she help defeat the darkest wizard seen this side of two centuries; not only can she express fully formed coherent death threats through telepathy; she can also glare at you straight through the side of her very own head. And she can make you positively whimper in fear for it.

"I know you've done something, Ginevra," she whispered as the priest turned to Ron and addressed him. "Why is my fiancee floating two inches from the floor?"

Her tone was quite petrifying. In fact, I think if it had been a real life being, her tone could have made fully grown mountain trolls cower in acquiescence and adorn pink tutus so they could be taken into the tutelage of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor of Hogwarts Castle.

Maybe even Blast-Ended Skrewts. Dragons, even, would be persuaded into pink tutus with that tone.

 

"Erm..." I said, fidgeting beneath her side-head x-ray glare, "Well, because...because he...he um, he fainted."

No, I did not poison the groom. Where in the world did you get that idea, you silly girl?

Hermione's whole body stiffened at my proclamation.

"And why, exactly, did he faint?"

I fidgeted again.

"Well...well because...he...met the Chudley Cannons."

Harry groaned across from me, and I glared at him. Just because my fabricating techniques had been a bit off the past couple of days, did not mean I couldn't get us out of this situation, as he so obviously thought the case.

It was just I was going to have to think about it for a while. And perhaps call in some favors so as Harry and I could receive some brand new identities and go off to live in middle Antarctica. With the penguins. And the polar bears.

And the yetis. Which would be extremely horrendous. I've heard they have horribly bad breath.

"The Chudley Cannons aren't here, Ginevra."

Ah yes. Very true statement, that. But I could handle it. Yes, I could.

"Yes, but they were."

"Were not."

"Were too."

"You're lying."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Be quiet, you idiot, we're in the middle of my wedding ceremony."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

"Don't be sarcastic with me, Ginny. You're the one who has incapacitated my groom."

"I have not!"

"You have too."

"How do you know?"

"Because you never tell the truth."

"Yes, I do!"

Throughout our conversation, Hermione and I had been speaking through our teeth, without moving our lips, in voices barely audible above the priest's droning. The problem was, we'd been in an argument, and I tend to forget myself in arguments. Therefore, my last statement was said in a rather loud voice. You might even call it an outside-voice. Definitely not an inside-voice. Especially not a wedding ceremony voice. More of a Quidditch Pitch voice. Or maybe even an oh-shit-a-yeti-is-breathing-on-me voice.

But even so, I didn't think the raising of my voice required the entire congregation gathered there in History Hall to gasp loudly and stare at me accusingly. Mum even cried out and fainted. Dad tried to catch her, but he missed, and they both toppled over the bench behind them.

The priest was looking at me, clearly very alarmed. "You...you have an objection?"

I stared at him, ignoring the commotion behind me as Dad tried to wake Mum up.

"Objection to what?"

"The marriage."

"Of course not!"

What an absurd thing to think. Really, this priest was obviously entirely incompetent for the job. First he picks his nose and then he falsely accuses people of sacrilege and suicidal thoughts. Because objecting to Hermione Granger's wedding would constitute as both those things. And everyone knew that.

Just like they knew that it was bad luck for a priest to pick his nose during a wedding ceremony. This guy needed to figure out how to judge the opinions of general society, because he was obviously lacking in that department.

"Then why..." the priest seemed highly confused.

"Ginny," Harry hissed from across the platform. "He just asked if anyone had any objection to the binding of Ron and Hermione in holy matrimony!"

Mum screamed behind me as Dad shot water out the tip of his wand at her. Then she scrambled up over the bench, her hair sopping wet and clinging to her face, and pointed at me.

"Punished!" she yelled hysterically. "You are punished, young lady! How dare you object to your very own brother's marriage! Punishment! Severe! No food or water for a week!"

I winced and turned back around slowly as Dad tried to calm her down and everyone else wondered if all us Weasley offspring had been abused as children. Fred and George bounced on their toes gleefully and pointed across the altar at me.

"Troublemaker!" Fred exclaimed.

"Hooligan!" added George.

"Rabble-rouser with an attitude problem!" they both finished, and I strategically positioned my flower bouquet between my right hand and the priest so I could flick them off fiercely without having to worry about the wrath of God. They cackled gleefully.

"I'm sorry," I addressed the priest, who was still blinking at me owlishly from behind his bifocals. "There has been a misunderstanding."

The priest blinked again, and I hiked my monstrous skirts up with difficulty and turned to face the crowd of people behind me. Hermione stiffened.

"What are you doing?" she sang out the corner of her mouth, in an obviously panicked tone.

"Fixing," I replied lowly, before I cleared my throat and projected loudly to the congregation.

"I object to this marriage," I stated firmly, and everyone gasped loudly. Except for Mum, that is, she rather roared as she tried to get at me whilst Dad held her back and looked at me with a face that clearly told me that I'd better have a good explanation or else I'd be living with the ghoul in the attic for long enough to discover his bathroom habits and which kind of marmalade he liked best on his toast in the mornings.

"I object to this marriage because I cannot see two people I love so dearly go into this union, on the happiest day of their lives, without knowing just how much they mean to me, and everyone else in this room."

The tension and shock in the room seemed to settle down a bit as everyone stared at me curiously. Mum stopped struggling to get away from Dad, and looked up at me with suspicion clear in her eyes. I smiled sweetly at her.

"Hermione, Ron," I addressed, turning to face them. "I love you. _We_ love you. That is all."

Hermione's eyes preached death as she strained a smile and nodded as if she appreciated the sentiment. Ron only lolled.

"Is that...is that all?" the priest wondered of me, and I nodded.

 

The priest blinked again and nodded slowly, before continuing with the ceremony. The crowd behind me seemed to settle down a bit, evidently trusting that I was just a bit of a nutcase with a thirst for attention who perhaps drank too much, and I felt a little of the panic inside me flutter away.

That is, until I heard what the priest was droning.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley," he wanted to know, "Do you take this woman to be your wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?"

Across from me, Harry made a strangled sound and gaped at the priest in front of us. Hermione squeaked a bit and looked at me in a fashion that suggested I had approximately two seconds to fix this before I was banished to the very bottom of the Mariana Trench, and the congregation behind us looked at Ron expectantly. I decided to retrieve my wand from between my inflated bosoms and apparate to the Sahara Desert as originally planned.

I'd only managed to get one hand halfway down my chest, however, when Harry moved suddenly. He twitched his wand, enervated Ron, and leaned in to whisper,

"Hey Ron, Hermione told me earlier that you don't like the Chudley Cannons."

There was a great flurry of motion as Ron flailed his arms above his head like a gorilla yelling out a mating cry, and he screamed in Hermione's face, spittle flying through the air to catch on her veil.

"YES, I DO!"

Silence descended upon the room as Ron breathed heavily and stared at Hermione in a distinctly unstable fashion, and I stopped molesting myself. Harry's left eye twitched nervously before he re-did the charms, and Ron once again stiffened, his head lolling to the side.

The priest blinked once at the now inert Ronald Weasley, before turning to Hermione, a distinctly disturbed expression on his face. "And do you, Hermione Jane Granger, take this man to be your husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do you part?" He glanced nervously at Ron, as if expecting him to suddenly do another imitation of a horny gorilla and leap upon the smoking flower arrangement in a fit of insatiable animal lust.

"I do," Hermione clenched out between her teeth, and I saw the smoke sifting up from the flower arrangement behind the priest morph into more of an anaconda than the original garter snake. Relief washed through me as I realized Harry and I had successfully wedded an unconscious man to his highly unstable wife, and I smiled genuinely for the first time that evening.

"You may now kiss the bride."

No more smile.

There was no way Harry could maneuver Ron well enough for that one. And apparently he knew it, because he had suddenly gone white in the face, and Ron convulsed a bit due to Harry's glitch in concentration. The priest took a step back.

I looked at Harry, mouthed, "Majorca," and started to reach for my breasts, before I suddenly found myself reflexively diving to the ground as the monstrous wedding cake on the table in the back corner of the hall exploded with an almighty roar, and two sparkling, hissing, crackling rabbits emerged from the ruins of the confection, humping one another like tomorrow was Armageddon and this was their last chance at fornication. A shower of multicolored pinwheels followed them and hissed around the room, before one of them exploded, and letters painted in fireworks appeared in the air.

"Make like rabbits...." The letters said, and then another pinwheel exploded. "And listen to your instincts." One more pinwheel exploded. "Congratulations Ron and Hermione! We hope your honeymoon is filled with lots of hot sex and liquor!"

The reactions in the room were multi-fold. The bride's side, for one, seemed more enchanted with the amazing fireworks than anything else, a few of them exclaiming about how they'd no idea firework technology had become so advanced...though Hermione's parents seemed rather disturbed at the message in the display, and were covering their mouths in shock.

The groom's side, however, was a cacophony of utter chaos. Half of the sea of red hair had disappeared completely, due to the fact they were rolling in the aisle in laughter, and the other half remained standing, either rolling their eyes good naturedly, staring blankly and looking bored, or appearing more than slightly scandalized.

As for individuals, well...Dad was holding two things back: one was a smile and the other Mum. Fred and George were grinning delightedly at the display and patting each other on the back heartily. Ron was lying on the floor unmoving due to the fact Harry had accidentally removed his wand from him at the explosion. Hermione was staring at the fireworks display blankly, apparently having gone into post traumatic shock. The priest was picking his nose again, and I was thanking Merlin for rabbit sex and fireworks.

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Fred and George were now yelling. "Ten Galleons a firework, specially made for any sort of celebration imaginable!"

"Anniversaries, birthdays..." Fred called in his sales-pitch voice.

"Holidays, funerals, the loss of your virginity..." George continued.

"Order forms are in the back," they finished. "Where the wedding cake used to be."

Mum let out a war cry and ripped herself from Dad's clutches to lunge at her twin sons. Fred and George's eyes widened at the approaching hellfire.

"Reckon we should make a run for it?" Fred asked.

"Reckon so," George responded, and they leaped away, dodging behind a pair of candelabras and using them to fend off Mum's rage as she clawed at them like an angry tiger.

Dad passed me as he went to follow Mum, and he patted Hermione on the back.

"Welcome to the family," he said. "It was a lovely ceremony."

The flower arrangement behind the priest exploded completely, and Hermione's relatives turned to ooh and aah about it as well. I reckoned they were all pyromaniacs, and it didn't much surprise me considering Hermione's recently developed flammable temper.

I'd just spotted a rather large piece of exploded cake resting on a chair near the front, and I was contemplating stealing it amidst the chaos and making myself inconspicuous lest Hermione should snap out of it and come after me with a blunt object, when I felt a frantic tug at the sleeve of my green cupcake dress.

"Ginny, we need to go get the cheese."

I turned to face Harry and stared at him blankly.

"What?"

"The cheese," Harry repeated, "We need to get it out of here."

"What for?"

"Just trust me on this one. We've got to commandeer the cheese."

I stared at him. Commandeer? "Is Moody having adverse effects on your mental state, Harry?" I asked, referring to his Auror training. "Because that was a distinctly Moody-esque word right there. You rather look like him, too, with your eyes darting about like that..."

Harry grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the table at the back of the room.

"Hey!" I complained, "I wanted that cake there!" I pointed to the exploded cake piece on the chair. "It had a flower on it."

Harry ignored this and continued to drag me to the back of the room.

"Come on," he said, "We've got to hurry."

"Why?"

"Because we haven't got much time."

"Much time until what?"

"Until the cheese wheels explode."

" _What_? Fred and George are exploding _all_ the food? Those _bastards_..."

Harry grunted as he squeezed us through two of my rather obese great-uncles, who were both scraping cake from their faces and shoving it in their mouths, and we emerged from the chaos facing the spectacularly ruined wedding cake and the large tray of cheese wheels resting beside it.

"I just don't understand it," I said as Harry led me over to the cheese. "Fred and George _like_ food. They usually leave at least some of it for consumption."

Harry began sliding the gigantic silver tray containing the cheese towards the front of the table.

"Yes well, Fred and George didn't put the explosives in the cheese."

I stopped attempting to discreetly snag a bit of cake and stared at him.

"What? Then how do you kn-...you didn't!" I gasped.

Harry nodded shortly. "I had to use some sort of diversionary tactic. Exploding things usually work. Grab that end there," he pointed to the side of the tray closest to me, and I placed my fingers around it as we both heaved the tray up. Five gigantic cheese wheels graced the plate, as well as a mountain of grapes in the middle, and the entire display wobbled a bit as Harry and I made for the doorway.

"I don't see any explosives," I said, peering into the display in front of me.

"That's because I put them inside the cheese."

"Clever."

"Thanks. Turn right."

We maneuvered into the hallway leading to the front door.

"So how long, exactly, before this thing explodes?" I asked curiously.

Harry adjusted his grip on the tray.

"Maybe a minute and a half," he said, and I gaped.

" _A minute and half_?"

Harry looked at me and opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted.

"Dear boy," a voice sounded from behind Harry, and I looked over his shoulder to see the drunken portrait with the white wig sitting with an equally intoxicated jester and his monkey in a landscape of the Sahara Desert, addressing Harry. The setting seemed ominous to me. Harry craned his neck to look at her.

"There are confectionary remains on your buttocks," she said, and pointed drunkenly.

Harry tried to see where she pointed, and upon realizing that he could not, in fact, observe his own bum, merely nodded appreciatively at her, and turned back to face me.

"We'd better hurr-" he started, but his sentence was cut abruptly short when he spied something over my shoulder and squeaked.

"What?" I asked, trying frantically to see behind my back. "What is it?"

Harry swallowed. "Hermione," he whispered, and I snapped my head to him, my eyes wide.

"Shit," I said. Then I looked behind my shoulder, saw that Hermione was now approaching menacingly, stalking extremely successfully for someone in a dress, the flower arrangements on either side of the hall bursting into flame as she passed. Harry and I both burst into motion, attempting to sprint down the corridor, but seeing as how I was in a dress as wide as the corridor itself and Harry's altered pants allowed him a very limited amount of movement, we weren't getting very far.

"We're going to have to think of a new plan," Harry yelled, as a flower arrangement exploded right in front of us. A flaming white tulip flew at my head, and I ducked quickly. Unfortunately, seeing as how I was a human cupcake on heels, this action caused me to tumble head over feet down the corridor and the cheese display to go flying. Harry's balance was thrown as I fell, and he face-planted into the ground as well, sliding down the corridor until he could slide no more.

Which was mainly due to the fact that my pannier got in the way, as Harry slid into the tent my dress had created when I fell. I sat up and stared down at the mound of velvet on my lap, and then reached out to gather it up, and reveal Harry's shocked face staring up at me from between my legs. He didn't even acknowledge the awkward position as he rolled out of my dress and grabbed a fallen cheese wheel.

"Quick, Ginny!" he yelled, looking over his shoulder at the quickly approaching Hermione. "Grab the cheese wheels and run!"

I barely had time to recognize the deja vu before Harry had hauled me to my feet and stuffed cheese into my arms. We looked at each other for a moment in a panic, and then we started running. Fast.

We didn't have to worry about getting the door open, as it just happened to explode right as we reached it, and we dove out of it and sprinted down the walkway as we heard Hermione letting out a roar of rage behind us.

"If we don't make it out of this alive," Harry panted as we started up the hill in front of the house. "I just want you to know that this morning-"

Even in a state of unadulterated panic, I could avoid that topic.

"You said we weren't talking about that until _after_ the wedding," I said.

"It _is_ after the wedding."

"No, it's not. Ron hasn't kissed the bride yet," I said as we crested the hill and started down the other side. Harry growled in frustration.

"That's a technicality, Gin, and you know it. I'm trying to tell you that I-"

"I don't want your sympathy, Harry."

Harry stumbled and gaped at me. "Sympathy? What sympathy? Ginny, I-"

" _Don't_ Harry," I said, and to my absolute mortification, tears welled in my eyes. "Don't deny it, Harry. I know you have a speculated girlfriend."

Harry stopped suddenly and I turned around after a few steps. "Speculated girl-Ginny, I _always_ have a speculated girlfriend! Do you even know who-"

"No, and I don't care. It isn't any of my business."

Harry snorted. "I beg to differ on that point, seeing as how she just so happens to be-" he stopped suddenly.

"Oh," he said, staring towards my chest. I looked down.

"Yeah," I said. "You're really lousy at the bosom-inflating spells."

Harry shook his head. "No. No, it's not-...Ginny, your cheese wheels are smoking."

I snapped my head to the two cheese wheels beneath my arms and realized that both were shuddering violently and hissing out long black tendrils of smoke. I looked up to Harry and saw that his own cheese wheels were doing the same.

It was telepathy again as we stared at each other, and we only managed one word before the roar of the explosion engulfed the world.

"Fuc-" we thought to each other, and then there was blackness.


	16. Buttless Speculations

Buttless Speculations

I realized two things once I woke from my exploding cheese induced stupor, and these were as follows:

One: I was in St. Mungo's.

I knew because the ceiling tiles were stark white, the floor was stark white, the sheets on the bed were stark white, the walls were stark white, the door was stark white, and the table beside my bed was...lime green. Working at the place, I'd always thought they looked a little out of place. Apparently someone had decided long ago that white was the most sanitary and heal-inducing color, and I figured if St. Mungo's had bought that, then they might as well have made the tables white too. As it was, they bought lime green eyesores and claimed they sent endorphins to your brain and made you happy despite the fact you were in a hospital. Which hardly ever worked. Go figure.

Anyways, realization number one was that I was in St. Mungo's.

Two: So was Harry.

I knew because he was sitting beside my bed, looking straight at my face. I might have wondered if I'd been hallucinating had I not realized he was wearing a stark white dressing gown that I knew the back was cut out of for easy bathroom usage.

I would have laughed at him had I not known I was wearing the same thing.

"Good morning," he said, and I slammed my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep again.

"Ginny, I just saw you wake up. You can't avoid me forever."

I cracked an eye a fraction of an inch, saw him raise his eyebrows at me as I did so, and shut them again. I snuggled deeper into the extraordinarily uncomfortable bed.

"You're right," I muttered in a sleepy voice. "But I can try." And I let out a small snore.

Harry sighed.

"Fine," he said, "But I don't think it's possible to even _attempt_ to avoid Hermione when she's on a rampage about a botched wedding, so I'd suggest you find someone willing to let you imitate them with Polyjuice and move to Antarctica."

I sat up in the hospital bed so fast that Harry barely had enough time to move his head out of the way. Quickly, I scooted to the edge of the bed, reached behind me to hold the back of my hospital gown closed so as not to moon poor Harry, and started towards the door.

"Not Antarctica," I said. "The yetis have horrible breath. There are no yetis in Majorca. Don't tell anyone that's where I've gone."

I'd just reached the stark white door on the opposite side of the room, and was putting a hand out to open it, when I heard an ominous click, and a squelch come from the vicinity of the handle. I turned around slowly and put my free hand on my hip.

"Did you just do a Colloportus on that door?"

Harry nodded and ignored my threatening stance as he slid his wand back into the pocket of his gown, where I saw it was resting beside another wand that looked suspiciously like my own.

"Is that my wand, Harry Potter?"

He looked up and nodded again.

"Are you kidnapping me?"

He nodded.

"Will you be letting me go anywhere inside the next ten minutes?"

He shook his head.

"Do you _want_ Hermione to kill me, then? Because I'd bet I could find a law-wizard good enough to call that assisted murder."

The corners of Harry's mouth twitched at that, before he got up and walked towards me, holding the back of his hospital robe closed behind him.

"No, Ginny," he said as he approached. "I don't want Hermione to kill you."

"Well you're doing a fine impression of it," I told him as he took my arm and led me back towards my hospital bed. He perched me on the end of it before reaching behind him to grab his own bed and drag it closer, and then sitting down to look at me. I struggled to keep my face impassive as his foot swung slightly and bumped against my own.

"I really don't think," I told him, "that I should be sitting here doing nothing while on the run from Hermione Gran- Oh, she's a Weasley now, isn't she?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. But you're not on the run from her."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not?"

"No."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because she's on her honeymoon, and I doubt she wants to spend her time hunting us down when she has...better things to do."

I looked at him skeptically. "I'm not so sure, Harry. I think I'd better escape to Majorca anyways. Just to be safe."

Harry shook his head amusedly before looking back up at me, a serious expression on his face.

"Ginny, what happened the other morning?"

"Other morning?" I asked, feigning ignorance. "How many mornings have we been here?"

"Three, but-"

"Three! I've been out for three days?"

"Yes, but-"

"That's a long time. The last time I was out for three days was when Fred and George dropped a potted plant on my head from the third story when I was five and threatening to tell Mum they'd transfigured my hair ribbon into a slug," I babbled, stalling for time. "How long did you stay out?"

"Two days, but-"

"Only two? Well that's no fair. Suppose you're used to it all by now, though, with the amount of times you've ended up here. When do we get to leave?"

"Whenever the Healers come for a final check, but-"

"When do you suppose that'll be?"

"Sometime in the morning, but-"

"You said it was already morning."

"It is, but-"

"Then how are they coming in the morning if it's already morning?"

"Well it's five o'clock in the morning right now, so I'm sure they'll be coming later, but-"

"What time do you suppose it is in China?"

Harry stopped trying to interrupt me at that point, and only frowned. "China? Why?"

"Well because Ron and Hermione are there," I said, as if it were obvious.

"What does that have to do with-"

"I'm concerned for my safety, Harry. _Our_ safety, in fact. If it's daytime over there, she might decide to come visit us while she's least expected. The element of surprise, you know? And you must remember the last time we saw her. She didn't look happy. Rather...enraged, I'd call it."

Harry shook his head. "No. Ginny, look, would you just listen to me for a second?"

He sounded exasperated, and seeing as how I couldn't think of anything else to stall him with aside form standing up, turning around, and letting go of my dressing gown, I merely sat staring towards the floor.

"What happened, Ginny?"

Briefly, I contemplated pretending confusion and asking him what happened when, where, why, and in what time zone, but in the end I decided to accept defeat and face the music.

"Well," I said, glancing up at him, "you were there."

Harry ran a hand through his hair nervously. "Yeah, but...alright, well then why did you do it?"

My shoulders slumped as I realized the full extent of my defeat, and I sighed. "I don't suppose another one of my fabrications would work in this situation?" I tried at a weak smile. A corner of Harry's mouth went up.

"Do they ever work?" he asked, kicking one of my feet gently. I mock glared at him.

"I've been having an unlucky streak as of late," I said, kicking him back. "It's not my fault."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Sure," he said, "take the blameless route if it helps your self-esteem any." He smiled as I narrowed my eyes some more, and then he reached out to brush a piece of hair away from my face. I took in an unsteady breath. "How about the truth, Gin?"

His fingertips lingered behind my ear and gently slid down my jawbone as he looked at me intently, and I felt the mist beginning to creep into my brain again.

"I..." I started in a whisper. "I don't know."

"You don't know if you'll tell the truth or you don't know what happened?"

I looked back down at the floor. "What happened," I said softly, staring at the chipped nail polish on my toenails. I frowned.

"Or, well, I know what happened, of course, but I have no idea what came over me," I continued, feeling myself sinking into that recess of my brain reserved for particularly mortifying situations, where I was left with no control of my mouth as I babbled nervously. I rather hated that recess. Often I wanted to kill it. I didn't though, because I figured that might have adverse effects on the rest of me. If there's one thing Healer training taught me, it's that the brain is a very important part of the body.

Rather essential, really. Even if it did make you babble incessantly.

"Or, rather," I said, cocking my head to the side, "I _do_ have an idea but I don't know why...Or I might know why, but I'm not going to admit it to myself...Or, well, I _have_ admitted it to myself, really, but I still like to pretend I'm in denial because...but it's just...I'm waffling, aren't I?"

I looked up at Harry and smiled thinly, and saw that he had an expression of wary happiness on his face. If I'd been in less of a mood to cry, I might have gotten angry at him for being such a prat.

"Alright," he said, nodding slowly, "but then why did you run away?"

I snapped my head up to stare at him at that, and looked at him like he'd gone completely mad.

"Why did I-...Harry, you didn't really... _do_ anything when I....and...plus, you have a speculated girlfriend, and I'm not goin-"

Harry shook his head and interrupted me. "Ginny, I _always_ have a speculated girlfriend! Granted," he said, frowning a bit to himself. "this time she might possibly be a bit more than only speculated, but that depends."

I felt my shoulders sink even more, and I wished the bed beneath me would come alive and swallow me whole.

"Depends," I started weakly, trying to save at least a little pride by pretending I wasn't so infatuated with him as to not be able to talk about his speculated girlfriends without going into a raging fit of jealousy.

We'll ignore the fact I was having disturbingly detailed visions of a faceless, nameless girl having her head eaten off by an enraged flesh-eating bicorn, shall we?

"Depends...on what?" I finished, attempting to look indifferent at the answer. Doubt it worked. Probably I looked like I'd rather be eating a flobberworm with a side of Bubotuber puss than hear the answer to that question.

Which was true. But it would have been completely rude to voice the opinion aloud.

Harry leaned down a bit as if to catch my eye, but I continued to examine the rather fascinating seams of the white tile floor beneath me.

"On whether or not," Harry answered, reaching out to put his knuckles beneath my chin and lift my face towards his. I examined the wall behind his shoulder as his hand dropped. "She agrees to let me cook dinner for her."

I couldn't help it. My eyes snapped immediately to his face. "You can _cook_?" I said, impressed despite myself. The vision in my mind now included a blast ended skrewt gnawing on the speculated girlfriend's leg, as I realized she was getting a boyfriend who could actually prepare a meal without burning the kitchen down.

I realized I was still staring at him in amazement, and I quickly went back to examining the wall over his shoulder. "No, I mean- well, there you have it. See?" I glanced back at him. "That's why I ran away. I knew your speculated girlfriend was on the verge of becoming un-speculated in lieu of being wooed by your cooking skills."

Nervously, I started smoothing down my hospital gown. "There," I continued. "Problem talked about. I'm sure we can put this all behind us now and...you know, move on."

Harry touched a hand to my knee and I fought hard to keep the mist in my brain at bay. Unfortunately, this took all my concentration, and I was therefore sitting stiffly, unmoving, beneath his touch, looking for all the world as if perhaps I'd just been shot in the butt with one of Cupid's arrows. Or maybe like I'd made eye contact with Medusa.

"Don't you at least want to know who it is?" Harry wondered.

His statement woke me up enough so that I moved my knee from under his hand and scooted down the bed towards the ridiculous green table, reaching out to pour myself a glass of water.

"Oh, you know," I said as I took a sip. "I really do need to try and escape from Hermione now, and-"

I stopped abruptly as I saw Harry reach behind him, grab a thin paper booklet, and thrust it at my face. Some of the water in my glass spilled down my front as I tried to avoid the tabloid being shoved at me, and I quickly put it back down on the table.

"Harry," I said, attempting to fend off his rather insistent attitude with the tabloid. "I've really never liked these th-what a horrendous picture!" I snatched the tabloid away from him and gaped at the front cover.

Harry leaned across the space between us to look at the picture upside-down. "I don't know," he said, squinting and moving his head as if to try and look at it correctly. "I thought it was rather fetching."

I looked at him disbelievingly before staring down at the picture again. It was moving, of course, being that it was on the cover of a Wizarding tabloid, and it was of me, Ginny Weasley, struggling beneath the weight of a pile of green velvet, delicate lace, wire panniers, and one very large Inflatable Bra, attempting to squeeze my way out of Madam Malkin's undersized door. My mouth moved every once in a while, blowing hair out of my eyes and then speaking furiously, and you could tell I was cursing sixteenth century Muggle culture to hell and back multiple times.

I wrinkled my nose as my photographic self finally managed to squeeze out the doorway, only to have the Inflatable Bra float to the ground. In the picture, I screamed silently and threw the rest of the clothing on the snow covered ground, throwing a tantrum as I jumped on top of them and stomped furiously.

"Was it really necessary for them to use this picture?" I wondered, as I watched myself grab the Inflatable Bra and attempt to rip it in half. "Really, it's terribly rude. I don't thin-"

"-Have you even read the headline yet?"

"What?" I asked, looking up to Harry confusedly. "Oh..." I looked back down to the tabloid sheepishly and read the words at the top of the page.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley," the letters glared up at me. "Girl-Who-Lives-with-the-Boy-Who-Lived? ...You Decide."

I gave a disgusted look. "Oh _eurgh_ ," I said. "They used my real name."

Harry chuckled and grabbed the back of his hospital gown as he got up and sat beside me, reading over my shoulder.

"I like your real name," he said. I snorted.

"You like to make fun of my real name," came my retort.

Harry swayed his head in acceptance before responding. "True," he said. "But I think you're missing the point here."

I looked up at him. "I am?"

"You are."

I waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, waved a hand as if to prompt him. "So the point is...?"

Harry rolled his eyes and looked at me in amusement before reaching down to tap at my picture with his finger. Photographic me looked up at that and flicked him off with both hands. He ignored her.

"You," Harry said, and looked back at me. "are my speculated girlfriend."

I looked down at the tabloid in front of me and frowned. "Oh," I said, cocking my head to the side. My eyes widened. " _Oh_..."

I looked up at Harry. "Oh?" I wanted to know.

Harry nodded. "Oh."

I blinked. "Oh. So, the other morning you were-"

"-extremely disappointed when you didn't give me a chance to respond? Right in one."

Harry looked at me as my eyes widened.

"Oh," I said.

Harry laughed. "You've said that one."

"Oh," I said, and cringed. This was another recess of my brain I wished I could mutilate. "Well, erm...this is...this is a bit ironic, then."

Harry smiled amusedly at photographic Ginny as she finally gathered the entire pile of lace and velvet monstrosities up and began stuffing them in a trash bin on the sidewalk. "Ironic?" he asked, letting out a snort as picture Ginny turned around from the garbage bin with a satisfied smirk on her face, only to find that the bra had not made it in with the rest of the clothing. "Why's that?"

I grimaced as I watched myself pull at my own hair in the picture in front of me. "Well, because, up until about ten seconds ago, I really wanted to maim and kill your speculated girlfriend via blast-ended skrewts and flesh-eating bicorns."

I grinned sheepishly as Harry laughed, and a surge of happiness filled my stomach as he calmed down enough to say, "Merlin, you're wonderful," and press a kiss to my hair. I think I would have thought it was all a hallucination, except if it'd been a hallucination, there wouldn't have been the bit in the beginning where I nearly escaped Harry's clutches. If it'd been a hallucination, we would have already been snogging on the hospital bed, traumatizing the Healing staff.

Plus, I probably wasn't creative enough to hallucinate the tabloid thing. And I really did hate those green tables, so I probably would have hallucinated them as a nice, sanitary white.

With this thought, I smiled at the green table beside me and leaned into Harry's embrace. It felt natural, really. Aside from the fact that our hospital gowns were buttless. But I was trying to ignore that.

I sighed happily as we laughed together at the caption beneath the headline.

"Ginevra Weasely (I'd complained at this point about the misspelling of my last name. Terribly rude people, the tabloid writers.), twenty-one year old Healer-in-training," it read, the letters glowing in different vibrant colors every few seconds, "has finally succeeded in her lifelong scheme to seduce Harry Potter into becoming her helpless sex-slave. Were illegal potions ingredients involved? Illegally altered Muggle objects? A dwarf and an enchanted frozen bag of peas? If so, will her father, a ministry official himself, arrest her for it?"

"So," Harry said as we calmed down enough to turn the page and discover two half-page pictures of us, one just outside of Madam Malkin's, and the other outside the Muggle grocery. In the first we were traveling arm-in-arm down the snow-covered street. I was smirking in a self-satisfied manner up at Harry, and he was rolling his eyes at me good-naturedly. Given the new circumstances in our relationship, I thought it was rather appropriate. At the time, however, I had just been gloating about being able to charm Harry to all my whims, and he'd been ignoring me as usual.

Still, though, I thought the caption beneath it was a bit ridiculous.

"Ginevra Weasely ("Again with the misspelling!") uses an enchanted Muggle coat, illegal love potions, and a dwarf bribed into assistance to make Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, escort her to their harem-themed flat outside Diagon Alley."

An obviously manipulated picture of a dwarf crept into the sides of the picture every so often, throwing different potion vials at Harry and then darting out of the frame again, while Harry's coat glowed blue sporadically, apparently enchanting him into being my sex-slave. It took us a good five minutes to stop laughing at that one and catch our breath.

Which was all rather pointless, considering the content of the next photograph. Whoever had snapped them must have followed us from Diagon Alley to the Muggle grocery, because the second picture was of Harry holding me by the waist, while I held a frozen bag of peas to my forehead and stared at him wide-eyed. They'd done a poor job of enchanting the picture, as the entire image flickered every ten seconds (probably when the real me had actually dropped the peas), and a yellow streak of light periodically shot out from the bag of peas, and struck Harry in the forehead. They'd put a flashing circle around the peas with an arrow pointing to it in case anyone was stupid enough not to realize it had been my evil weapon of choice.

"A frozen bag of peas, enchanted by Ginevra Weasely herself, throws a mind-altering charm at Harry Potter, as Miss Weasely pretends to faint in his arms," read the caption. Harry and I burst out laughing.

"Priceless," I exclaimed, waving the photograph in front of me. "Absolutely priceless! We have got to frame this, Harry."

Harry nodded helplessly beside me, clutching his sides in laughter. "It...must be...immortalized," he gasped out. I fell into a fit of giggles and collapsed against his shoulder.

"Are there anymore?" I wondered, lifting the tabloid and moving to turn the page.

"I have no idea," Harry shook his head. "But I wouldn't be surprised."

I laughed lightly as I turned to the next page, and then we both went still. The picture was completely motionless. Unmoving, like a reflection in a pond at dawn. If examined closely enough, the picture could be seen to have a very, very small form of movement, and that was that the space between Harry and my faces was closing ever so slowly. Harry and I were silent as we watched the picture, our photographic selves completely oblivious of anything as they stared at one another, and then it was as if the first rock of the day had been thrown into the pond. There was a flash in the picture-Harry's glasses- and our heads snapped around to stare out of the page in surprise. The photograph rippled, and then giant red letters appeared diagonally across it and flashed brightly.

"CAUGHT IN THE ACT!" they said, flashing a few more times before the picture started over. Harry shifted slightly. I cleared my throat.

"I guess..." I started, and cleared my throat as my voice failed. "I guess that Muggle kid on the bicycle outside the prison wasn't really a Muggle, then..."

Harry nodded and watched the picture as the words started flashing again.

"Gin," he started, looking back at me. I felt my heart rate speed up as the mist crept in again. "I was thinking..."

I couldn't help it. I hadn't made fun of him in an entire three days. Withdrawal was kicking in.

"Isn't Hermione the one that usually does that?"

Harry cracked a smile and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well she isn't here, is she?"

"Thank Merlin."

Harry laughed. "Right, but I'm serious. I was thinking...well, hoping, more like...that maybe, if you wanted of course, that maybe we could...I don't know, just...what I mean to say is, if you thought...that we could-"

"Harry, I think maybe you should breathe," I said, noting the puce tint his face was steadily acquiring.

Harry nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "Merlin," he said, sounding exasperated with himself. "I can call the darkest wizard of our age a sodding wanker with a bad hair-do before I vanquish him, but I can't ask the girl I fancy the fuzzy slippers off of out to dinner."

I held back a smile and a giddy squeal and instead looked seriously at him.

"Well, if it helps any, I don't own any fuzzy slippers. Crookshanks ate them last time Hermione brought him over with her."

Harry let out a bark of nervous laughter and then was silent. I pretended to be absorbed in flipping through the rest of the tabloid.

"Did you really call Voldemort a sodding wanker with a bad hair-do?"

Harry let out an amused snort.

"Nah, that was Hermione. I just called him Tom."

I stopped halfway through flipping a page of the tabloid and whistled through my teeth.

"Bet that pissed him off," I said.

"Not as much as Ron snapping his wand in half and calling him a filthy half-blood shithead."

My eyes widened. "Ron _said_ that?"

Harry smiled slightly and nodded. I thought for a moment.

"Yeah, sounds like Ron," I said. Harry laughed. "But how'd he end up with Voldemort's wand? I wouldn't think that would be a particularly easy possession of his to get a hold of."

Harry's eyes darkened slightly, and I wished I hadn't asked. Harry had never told me about defeating Voldemort. In fact, Harry had never told anyone about defeating Voldemort. The only response the press had received was a short and irritated, "He's dead. For good. No more coming back. So how about we all move on with our lives and forget about the particulars?"

I put a hand on his knee. "Look, Harry, you don't have to talk about it. It doesn't even matter, I was jus-"

"Voldemort put him under Imperius," Harry said, looking at the far wall but not seeing it. My eyes widened, and I went silent. "Hermione and I thought we were dead. Ron's amazing at strategy and above average on most defensive spells, but he's never been any good at shaking off the Imperius Curse. It just attacks all his weaknesses, he can't..." Harry trailed off for a moment, looking haunted, and I reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"Well anyways, he was under Imperius, and Voldemort was laughing while he made him put a full-body bind on me, and then he told him to Crucio Hermione. He didn't...he wouldn't want..." Harry was suddenly looking at me. "It wasn't his fault, Ginny. Don't blame him for it."

I shook my head emphatically, tears welling as I thought about what they had been through. It was odd how I could go from completely euphoric to horrified in the span of three seconds and a few words.

Harry took his eyes of me and looked back to the wall.

"I could see his face from where I was stuck. Ron didn't want to do it, I could tell. Even under Imperius he had enough sense to know he didn't want to...It took Voldemort a good five minutes to hit him with a hard enough Imperius to actually get him to do it. I still had my wand, but I couldn't move, and I was doing everything I could to try and break that body-bind...I couldn't until Hermione had been screaming for half a minute, and even then I couldn't move because I had to find a way to get the curse off Ron before I did anything. You know how they go mad when the caster dies when they're still under the curse, but...

"It was incredible, Gin. Hermione just got up off the floor, even in all that pain, and looked Ron right in the eye and told him he loved her. She just said, 'You love me, Ron,' and Voldemort laughed and made Ron hit her harder. She screamed so loud, Ginny, I couldn't take it. I jumped up and was about to just attack Voldemort bare-handed, when I realized that she was screaming at Ron that she loved him. It was like all the sound died, and then there was this great boom and Ron was screaming the Disarming Spell at Voldemort and snapping his wand, and I was throwing the Avada Kedavra, and Hermione was somehow throwing up a wandless shield spell to protect us from the explosion, and..."

Harry finally looked at me and smiled slightly. "His wand was his last Horcrux," he told me. "We'd figured it out before we went to find him. It was what he could always keep closest to him without raising any sort of suspicion. Our plan failed within five minutes of finding him, though, and...Well, I guess it all just comes down to love. Dumbledore told me that, but I didn't believe him. He was right though. Of course. Ron and Hermione had enough to defeat him all by themselves."

He had a bittersweet look about him, and I wondered how laughing over ridiculous photographs could lead to a conversation like this. I squeezed his hand and leaned in closer.

"So did you, Harry," I told him.

Harry smiled sadly. "All I did was throw an Avada Kedavra, Ginny. It wasn't hard after I'd watched the man make my best friend torture the woman he loved."

I shook my head. " _No_ , Harry. That's not all you did. If you didn't love Ron and Hermione and they you, they never would have followed you in there. And if you didn't have a whole fleet of people you'd left behind that loved you enough to let you leave them behind, and a fleet of people you loved enough to sacrifice everything you have for...Voldemort would still be alive. And that would completely suck."

He breathed through his nose amusedly and looked at me. For a long time. I held back a flush. Before he reached up to put a hand to the side of my face. Then I think I turned into a tomato.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and I frowned.

"What for?"

"That day at Dumbledore's funeral."

I shook my head and grinned at him. "That was years ago, Harry. I think I've had enough time to get over it."

"But if I'd just...I don't know. Let us stay the same, except...I don't know. Ask you to wait for me or something."

I gave him an incredulous look. " _You_?" I asked. "Be selfish, and ask someone to wait for you? Since when have you ever done anything the least bit outside of noble?"

Harry mock glared at me. I stuck out my tongue.

"It's true, you know," I said. "And besides, what do you think I would have done if it was my boyfriend out there sacrificing his life while I stayed behind learning how to stay on the sidelines and heal the wounded: instead of the boy who'd just dumped me, who I figured had enough on his mind to forget me?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Gotten yourself killed."

"Exactly," I said, nodding. "I figured out that you'd done the right thing after about two months and seven botched attempts to escape my mother's clutches and follow you three. Besides, I sort of figured you saw me as your last piece of normality before the storm. So to speak."

Harry was shaking his head emphatically.

"No!" he said. "No, that wasn't it at all! I really liked you. Like you. I _still_ like you, never stopped. Which is a bit pathetic, really if you thin-"

I snorted. "Don't talk to me about pathetic, Harry Potter," I said sternly. "You're speaking to the girl who's been completely infatuated with the same boy since she was five years old."

Harry smirked. "This is true."

I smacked him, and he grinned.

"Prat," I muttered. Harry just grinned some more, and put his arm around my shoulders. I ignored him and continued reading about my sadistic mind and how I was leading poor Harry down the path of sin and evil. It was amusing, yes, but I found myself fighting back a furious scream about just how much evil Harry had already seen.

"About what I was saying earlier..." he said, and I felt him tense beside me.

"Which part?" I asked, flipping a page and discovering I had an illegal garden of Majorcan Love Leaves in my basement that I used the extract from to cast an aphrodisiac spell over Harry.

"The part where I was failing miserably at asking you to dinner."

I stopped reading the tabloid and looked up at him sharply.

"It's just I was hoping that maybe..." he started, once again running a hand through his hair. "that maybe we could work on modifying the 'speculated' bit in the part where you're my speculated girlfriend."

I tried to keep myself from smiling entirely too goofily to be completely sane, but I don't think I had much luck.

"Modify it how?"

"Like maybe we could just...delete it," he said, looking at me nervously. I grinned.

"Oh, Romilda Vane is going to be so _furious_ ," I said, dropping the tabloid to the floor and shifting so I could reach my arms around Harry's neck. He was smiling widely as he twined his arms around my waist.

"Romilda Vane?" he asked, looking confused. I nodded. "Why?"

I smirked and pointed down to the tabloid on the floor, which was facing upwards, my picture once again stuffing the clothing into the trash bin. Harry leaned his head to get a look at it, before throwing his back and rumbling out a laugh. I laughed along with him.

"Dear Romilda," I said, pretending to be reciting a letter. "Thank you so much for writing that article about Harry and I. Without it, I would be living in Majorca, alone and miserable, and Harry never would have asked me out to dinner. Did you know he can cook? Makes an incredible breakfast platter. The kippers are my especial favorite."

We laughed again, and Harry leaned his forehead against mine. Our breath was sifting together between us, just like the time outside the prison with the loo rolls, only this time there were no reporters posing as obnoxious teenaged boys to interrupt. And no loo rolls. Only backless hospital gowns and tacky bedside tables. I closed my eyes, leaning in to kiss Harry Potter for real, for the first time in years, after many many embarrassing situations and one disastrously botched attempt. Our lips were close enough to have static pass between them when we suddenly knocked heads, and Harry's glasses flew off, both of us cursing completely non-telepathically as we grabbed our heads.

No, we aren't just really horrible at snogging. It was because of the Healer in the doorway.

She said, "Excuse me, but it is my professional opinion that you should think before doing that. After so many days of unconsciousness, the lack of oxygen to the brain could cause you to pass out again."

And cue the head-banging. I rubbed my forehead as Harry felt around for his glasses. After the third time he stuck his hand in my lap and flushed brightly before muttering an apology, I grabbed them for him and shoved them on his head.

"Hello, Luna," I said, looking up at the Healer in the doorway.

She smiled at me as she entered the room. "Hello, patient number 4-5-7."

"You know, it really makes people feel like some sort of prisoner when you address them as a number," I told her, trying to keep from crying as Harry grabbed the back of his hospital gown and moved to his own bed.

"Well, you are a bit of a prisoner if you think about it," Luna said, smiling as she crossed to me. "You can't leave until I say so."

She was serious. If it hadn't been Luna, it might have been scary. As it was, I rolled my eyes and did as she told me as she morphed into her Healer mode. I followed the light at the tip of her wand, opened my mouth and said, "Ahh," took deep breaths as she pressed one end of her wand to my back and the other into her ear, and only complained a minimal amount as she stuck her wand tip up my nose, said an incantation, and pronounced my brain healthily whole.

Then she moved over to Harry.

I sighed as I watched her shove her wand tip in Harry's ear. He only grimaced a bit, and I imagined it was because he was so used to it. He made a face at me and I smiled, before reaching down to pick the tabloid up and put in on the lime green table. Luna had moved on to feeling Harry's pulse, and I watched her.

I'd thought about being a regular Healer. One who made the rounds every day, flitting in and out of people's lives professionally with either good news or bad, but in the end I'd decided Mid-Witch Healing was what I'd be better at. There was a year's more worth of training, since it was more specialized, so Luna had finished before me. Maybe it had something to do with growing up with seven siblings, but I liked kids. I was good at dealing with people for longer than just a few hours or days, and I liked the field. Never mind Bill's point that pregnant women were holy terrors. He was biased since Fleur was seven months along with their child, and having him running out for ice-cream at all hours of the morning.

And I'm not going to mention Fred and George's point that I'd always have to be staring up women's...I'll just leave it at that.

"Can we go now?" I whinged, as Luna straightened from Harry and pronounced his brain healthy. He rubbed at his nose and muttered a thank you.

"Sure," Luna stated cheerfully, going over to the door and opening it. She seemed to be waiting for us to leave.

"Um, Luna?" Harry wondered. "What about our clothes? These are a bit...insufficient." He reached for the back of his gown as he said this and tugged it tighter together.

"Oh," Luna said, frowning thoughtfully. "Well, your apparel had exploded cheese all over it when you came in, and it started smelling after a few days so we threw it out." She smiled cheerfully and started out the door, calling a goodbye over her shoulder.

Harry and I looked at each other.

"Now what?" Harry asked.

It was a good question. And it took a good ten minutes to find a suitable answer. In the end we decided attempting to make togas out of the bedsheets was an impossibility since they'd probably arrest us for thievery, and it was a better idea to just stick to the shadows and make our way to the designated Apparition Point. From there we could go over to my apartment and grab some clothing, since I had a few of Ron's shirts I slept in and a pair of Charlie's sweatpants that I'd stolen for comfort.

But first, we decided to snog. Telepathically we decided, I mean. There was no verbal communication on the subject of snogging, but when we'd gotten to the door and were both looking out into the hallway to check for enemy Healers, our telepathic link had buzzed a bit, and the mist was once again creeping into my brain.

"Ginny Weasley!" a voice carried down the hallways, and Harry uttered an emphatic curse before knocking his head back against the doorframe, while I threw a mental tantrum. Complete with foot stomping, hair pulling, and bogey hexing.

"I give you two weeks off so you can be Maid of Honor worthy, and you show back up a week later? What am I going to do with you?" Healer Hestia Jones, my overlord, and I say that because on the job she was a holy terror, bustled down the hall towards us. "And Harry Potter! Why, I don't think I've seen you since your friend Mr. Weasley hauled you in for that nasty bump on your head. Something to do with moving in and a levitated bed frame?"

Harry grimaced at the memory but gave a strained smile to Healer Jones. I tried to look cheerful and reluctant to leave when I'd rather be working diligently under her supervision.

It took us another twenty minutes to get away from her, as she rather like talking, and then we decided that in the interest of our sanity, we should get to the Apparition Point as soon as possible before we saw anyone else we knew. We were there in less than a minute and a half. This is impressive because it was five floors up and down two corridors.

"You know," I gasped out, breathing heavily after our mad dash through the hospital. "I have a couch."

Harry wiped a forearm across his brow and frowned at me. "I think that's fairly normal, Gin."

I waved his statement off tiredly as we rounded the last corner to the Apparition Point.

"Yes, but I just thought it was worth mentioning."

"Why?"

I gave him what I hoped was a sultry look, but seeing as how I'd just run a marathon after being unconscious for three days, it probably looked more like I had gas.

"Because you can sit on the couch," I said, stepping into line behind an elderly man with a tea spout for a nose. "And you can lie down on the couch, and you can jump on the couch...You can do a lot of things on my couch. Plus, there are no Healers present near my couch. Aside from me, of course, but that's because I own the couch."

Harry's expression had slowly changed from one of bafflement to one of goofy happiness. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up onto the apparition platform.

"Come on," he said. "We need to go check and make sure no one's stolen your couch."

Half a second later, we were standing in a snow globe.

"Wha-?" Harry said, as he looked around the globe. I gaped beside him.

"Oh my Merlin," I said, staring across the room at a door buried halfway up in snow. "We forgot to fix the window in my bedroom. It's been snowing in here for three days!"

I looked up at Harry, expecting him to looking around my ruined apartment in shock and bafflement, but instead finding him looking forlornly at the middle of the room, where there was a snow mound vaguely reminiscent of a sofa.

"The couch," he moaned despairingly. I would have comforted him had I not realized something very important.

"Arnold!" I yelled, wading my way over towards the kitchen counter, where I saw a lump of snow where Arnold's cage was supposed to be. I dug through the snow one-handed, since I still had to hold the back of my gown closed, and gasped when I finally uncovered his cage.

"Arnold!" I exclaimed again, ripping the top of his cage off and scooping his limp form out gently. "Oh, please don't be dead," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "Please, please don't be dead."

Harry had waded over to me by this time and was now peering over my shoulder at the fuzzy pygmy puff in my hand. I petted Arnold frantically, and then pressed a finger beneath his throat. I felt a faint pulse.

Quickly, I looked up at Harry. He looked down at me, noticed my expression, and his eyes widened. He took a step back.

"You're going to ask me to do something I don't want to do," he said, putting his free hand up as if to ward me away and backing up further. "I can tell because you gave me that same look three days ago when you made me help you ruin Hermione's wedding."

I ignored him, instead swiping off a large pile of snow on the counter and laying Arnold down gently.

"Harry," I addressed him, turning around slowly, "you remember that time I had an apple bit stuck in my throat?"

**A/N: Please remember that this was written before DH. Therefore, the thing about how Harry defeated Voldemort does not follow canon. Thanks :)**


	17. The Thing about Couches

The Thing about Couches

This is one of those instances where I feel it's best if I allow you to reminisce a bit before you continue on reading, specifically on the subject matter of this story leading up to this point, which is obviously the next part of the narrative. There are, in particular, three things I want you to remember going into this section of my little tale. They are as follows:

One: Harry Potter wants to make me his _un_ speculated girlfriend.

Two: Harry Potter wants to make me his _un_ speculated girlfriend.

And Three: Harry Potter wants to make me his _un_ speculated girlfriend.

Are we clear on this point? Good. Now I can move on to the story.

"Harry," I addressed him, turning around slowly, "you remember that time I had an apple bit stuck in my throat?"

I was referring, of course, to the day that I thought, at the time, was the worst day of my known life (this being life after an evil psychotic warlord, because the life before it was vaguely depressing and in order not to lapse into despair, I tended to think of myself as having two lives. One before; one after. It was a survival technique, a deterrent of post-traumatic stress syndrome, what can I say?). This particular horrible day took place in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occassions, and it was made most especially terrible by the fact I'd been attacked by Inflatable Bras, forced into a hula skirt, forced into a coconut bra, forced into a corset, forced into a pannier, forced into a gigantic mound of velvet and lace, and then knocked out by an old lady in a supermarket. All while delirious as a result of starvation.

Only, in the above description of the day, I left out the bit where I choked on an apple bit from my fruit hat, and Harry had to do his saving thing again, and grab my nose while kissing me. I'd deduced after the fact that this was a Muggle rescue technique, which I have to admit now I'm Harry's unspeculated girlfriend, is quite relieving, being that it wasn't the most effective way of kissing someone.

So, originally, I had taken out the apple bit part, because I thought for a while that, horrendously ineffective or not, Harry Potter had kissed me. That, I figured, didn't belong in a day labeled as the most horrible in your life. Then, of course, I'd deduced that he hadn't in actuality kissed me in the emotional sense, just the technical, and so I added it back on.

Now, however, due to recent events, I've decided to take it out again, because I think it's a rather good thing Harry wasn't kissing me, because that means he's a whole lot better at it than I originally thought.

Or, I assumed as much, but seeing as we'd been thwarted in all our recent attempts to snog, I didn't yet have actual evidence.

But, the whole point of this dithering tirade (you must excuse me, I've just recently been told by the most eligible wizard in all the world, also the boy I've forever been infatuated with, that he wants me to become his unspeculated girlfriend. This is a big deal. I am a Very Happy Lady. And Very Happy Ladies tend to ramble. So, once again, you must excuse me, while we continue on with the point. Which...), is that Arnold was dying, and Harry could save him.

He knew it, too. It was why he was looking at me with a distinct expression of increasing nausea on his face.

"Ginny, the apple bit was different," he said, glancing between me and Arnold nervously.

"I don't see how," I said, continuing to pet poor Arnold frantically. "I don't see how, Harry, I don't see how it's any different at all. It saved me, it'll save Arnold. Now do the VCR on him!"

I was looking quite menacing by this time, I think, and Harry was starting to look nervous because of it.

"It's CPR," he corrected distractedly, "and I wasn't even supposed to do it on you. You're only really supposed to do it on people who aren't breathing and don't have a pulse, and you had a pulse thank Merlin, but Hermione was threatening my Firebolt, so..."

Vaguely I entertained the notion of punishing him for that statement, claiming he was more interested in saving his Firebolt than his unspeculated girlfriend, but since Arnold was dying, I decided it wasn't quite that important. But it was a close second.

"I don't care!" I yelled, now advancing toward Harry, Arnold gripped in my right hand and the back of my hospital gown gripped in my left. "I don't care what you were and were not supposed to do, since it ended up working in the end. Do - the - VCR - on - Arnold!"

"CPR," Harry muttered automatically, looking panicked now I'd backed him into a corner of my kitchen. "And Ginny, I only know how to do CPR on humans, not pygmy puffs, an-"

"DO IT!" I screamed, shoving Arnold's limp form towards him.

"I CAN'T!" he roared back, finally seeming to lose his temper somewhat.

"Do it anyways!" I yelled.

"It doesn't work that way!" Harry yelled.

"BELCH!" Arnold burped.

The burp was easily as loud as Harry and my yelling, and I think we stood staring down at the tiny little creature in utmost shock for at least a minute before anything of significance actually occurred. And that was that Harry decided to be completely and totally tactless.

"Is that one of those death noises corpses are supposed to make?" he asked, staring at the ball of fur in my hand.

I gave him a disgusted glance before bending over Arnold hopefully. There would have been much berating, except my pet pygmy puff might have just been resurrected from death via gas expulsion through the oral cavity, so Harry got off the hook.

"Arnold?" I asked, staring down at him. "Arnold, are you still alive?"

Harry was close now too, the crowns of our heads nearly touching as we watched for signs of life from Arnold.

"Prod him," I ordered Harry, being that the hand not holding Arnold was otherwise unavailable holding the back of my hospital gown closed.

"What?" Harry wanted to know, and our heads raised so that we could look at each other over the inert form of the miniature puffskein.

If there hadn't been the distraction of a possible corpse making post-death noises to think about, we might have finally had that snog. Instead, I just gave Harry a significant look, and bent my head back down over Arnold.

"Prod him," I said again. "Poke him. Make him come back alive; you have that saving people thing, don't you? This is right up your alley."

Harry gave a bit of an irritated sigh at that. "Arnold is not, in case you haven't noticed, a person, Ginny. And I don't have a saving people thing. People who need saving just sort of...find me."

I would, I'll have you know, have made a witty retort at this point (something to the extent of discrimination against species not our own), but I was deterred rather expertly by my nearing-corpse-status of a pet pygmy puff. Harry's exhalation of irritated breath a few moments earlier had had a bit of an effect on poor, nearly-dead Arnold. It had ruffled his fur, particularly about his nose, and Arnold had this thing about his nose. He didn't like it to be ruffled, petted, tweaked, or otherwise touched in any way.

So, when Harry's breath sifted through the hairs on Arnold's nose, the puffskein's eyes snapped open. They latched on the closest thing to his nose, which happened to be Harry's nose, and then Arnold's eyes transferred the duty of latching on to his teeth, and then Harry was cursing so loudly I thought surely the devil himself was weeping with joy at the spectacle.

Harry Potter was flailing, cursing, stomping, and otherwise pitching an almighty fit of pain in the middle of my living room, and it was because a cute little ball of fur had attached itself to his nose. Either pygmy puff's teeth are exceptionally sharper than I originally speculated, or Harry was being a big fat wimp. Neither case, however, changed the fact that all Harry's flailing was putting my recently resurrected pet in harm's way, and I was not having any of that.

"Stop!" I yelled, trying in vain to reach a hand through his flailing arms and extract Arnold gently and without harm. "You're going to hurt him!"

Even through the wailing, Harry managed to let out a snort.

" _I'm_ hurting him?" he exclaimed hysterically. "I'm not the one latched to someone's nose!"

There was no abatement in his flailing as he said this, and after a few moments more of unsuccessful rescue attempt at Arnold's life, I decided to pull the Feminine Distraction card.

No, that does not mean I mooned him. Nor did I show him my breasts. I did however, take advantage of the ridiculous, ill-placed protective instincts all men around me seemed to have an excess of, and I pretended to faint. The desired effect was immediately achieved. Harry stopped flailing.

"Ginny?" I heard him, and through the small crack in my eyelid I could see Harry staring down at me in bewilderment, Arnold swaying from his nose like a furry bogey. "Ginny!" he exclaimed again, and this time and dove towards me and leaned over my body.

Immediately, I grabbed hold of his throat and snapped my eyes open.

"Don't move," I ordered. Harry's eyes widened considerably more than one would think possible.

" _Meherp_ ," he said in surprise.

I removed one hand from Harry's throat to gently pry Arnold from his nose. It took some maneuvering and more than one pained wince from Harry, but I dislodged the pygmy puff in the end, and cradled him against my cheek.

"Oh, _Arnold_!" I exclaimed, petting him frantically. "I'm so happy you're alive!"

Arnold purred loudly as Harry grumbled and rubbed at his nose.

"Geez," he grouched. "You'd think you might be just a little bit concerned for me, seeing as how I'm the one with blood pouring down my face."

"Oh, honestly. You can handle narrowly escaping death no less than a thousand some-odd times, but you completely crack when you're attacked by a pygmypuff? Very un-Gryffindor of you, Harry."

Harry looked as if he were about to make some sort of retort, but despite my sarcastic tone I was by then plopping Arnold on my shoulder, reaching for my wand, and waving it in front of Harry's nose. He automatically held still, no doubt used to being healed after all his many forays over the years, and in two minutes I had his nose back to normal.

Or, relatively normal, at least. It did look a bit like he had little zits in the shape of a small mouth on his nose, but other than that it was fine.

"How come he doesn't bite you when he's that close to your face?" Harry was observing Arnold warily as the fur ball cuddled with my cheek.

"Because I happen to be a goddess whom everyone adores, and you do not."

Harry rolled his eyes and gave a small wince as he touched his nose gingerly. I started to feel a little sorry for him. Arnold's teeth were probably fairly sharp. It probably hurt more than it looked. Probably I was looking for any excuse to be sympathetic and touch a hand to his face. Which is what I did. I also made a sympathetic noise and leaned closer.

This time, we were surely going to snog. Nothing could stop us.

Nothing except for Harry mentioning the weather, that is.

"My feet are cold," he said, and I stared at him incredulously, my hand dropping from his face. He noticed. "No, I mean-well, they are, but I'm saying it because I don't think it would be the most comfortable thing in the world to snog on your snow-covered kitchen floor while wearing buttless hospital gowns. Probably that would detract from the experience. I don't want to detract from the experience. I want the experience to happen somewhere comfortable. Like in Majorca. Or on a couch."

I glanced to the mound of snow in the middle of my flat and frowned. "My couch is currently unavailable," I said.

"I know," he replied, a little despairingly. "We need to find another couch."

"Hermione had a couch once," I mentioned thoughtfully. "But I destroyed it."

Harry looked at me.

"She gave me _permission_ ," I said, a little defensively. Harry didn't look particularly convinced. We both went back to thinking.

"Majorca's probably available," I said. Harry thought it over seriously. Then he made a pained face and snapped his fingers.

"Luna's wedding," he said, and we both hissed through our teeth at the hindrance in our plans. There was thinking-silence once again.

"We could...unearth the couch," Harry suggested, staring at the snow-couch. I cocked my head to the side and examined it.

"That's an idea," I said. "And while we're at it, we could unearth my entire flat. It has to be done sometime."

"Right," said Harry, nodding decisively. "Let's start with the couch."

"Let's start with the _chest-of-drawers,_ " I corrected. "Then we can unearth the couch. Get your brain out of the gutter for five minutes."

It was decided that this was the best course of action, as unearthing the chest-of-drawers would subsequently unearth clothing, which we desperately needed considering the freezing temperatures in the flat. Besides, what fun is snogging on the couch if you can't remove at least a _little_ bit of clothing?

We evanesco'd the snow going into my bedroom, unearthed the chest-of-drawers, retrieved clothing, and then I exercised my abilities of good-hostessing and allowed Harry to change in my room, while I evanesco'd a path to my loo and changed in there. I emerged a few minutes later significantly warmer and with the thought of perhaps using the buttless abominations as kindling for a fire in the grate. I voiced the opinion loudly and asked for Harry's thoughts as I began evanesco-ing my way to the fireplace, but upon receiving no answer from the boy in question, changed my course to that of my bedroom.

"Harry?" I asked, peeking my head around the frame. "Did you hear me?"

Harry was standing at the far wall, still, looking at my destroyed window.

"Yeah," I said, coming fully into the room. "That's where I threw the...door...door knob, what is that taped over the hole?"

I pushed past Harry quickly and yanked off an envelope taped across the window, flipping it over in my hands. "EVICTION NOTICE" was blazoned diagonally across the front of it, uncannily reminiscent of the letters splayed across our picture in the tabloid, and I found myself feeling very faint as the envelope slipped from my fingers and floated to rest in the snow at my feet. Arms twined about me hurriedly and gently set me down on the edge of my bed.

"It's alright, Gin," I heard Harry saying, and I noticed vaguely as he banished the snow off the rest of the bed so he could sit as well. "It'll be alright."

I looked at him, in a daze.

"I can't be evicted," I said. "If I'm evicted then I'm doomed forever. I'll never do anything but bake mince pies with Mum and build plugs with Dad. I'll be a loser. A giant loser. A giant fat loser because Mum will never stop feeding me."

Harry patted my back awkwardly. "Well...your mum's cooking is really good, though. Maybe it'll be worth it?"

I ignored him. Obviously he had no idea what he was talking about.

"I'll turn into Mum," I said, suddenly turning to Harry, panic evident in my eyes. "Oh Merlin, Harry, I'll turn into Mum!"

Harry looked a bit panicked too now, what with all my hysteria, and quickly tried to think of a response.

"I..." he said, "I like your mum."

"Do you like my mum like you like me?"

"No!" He looked horrified.

"Well, see! See? It'll be terrible. I'll be just like her. I'll look all...mum-ish and..." I struggled for an adjective.

"Homely?" Harry provided. I pointed at him and nodded vigorously.

"Yes! Homely. I'll be homely," I decided, on a roll now. "I'll be homely and it'll be awful because homely women spend all day slaving in the kitchen, and hanging laundry out to dry, and they have seven kids who are all holy terrors and always complaining to them and making noise. I don't want seven kids, Harry! I don't want noise! I want two kids, maybe three, and no noise. I want two kids, maybe three, with no noise and a dog. No offense Arnold." I turned my head to look at the pygmy puff on my shoulder. He seemed to shrug as if to say, "None taken."

Harry looked fairly baffled with my speech, opening and closing his mouth, apparently trying to think of some way to comfort me.

"And how," I started up again. " _How_ , pray tell, am I going to attract a husband, which is a necessity for the two kids, maybe three, if I look homely. No one goes for homely women. Everyone goes for fit women. Curvy women, but not homely. I'm going to have to take my homely self down to the rowdiest pub I can find, and I'm going to have to bribe some sleaze ball with my famous mince meat pies to impregnate me. It's going to be awful. I'm going to get diseased, and then no one will want to marry me doubly. And my kids will hate me for being a diseased, depressed mum who fed them too much and made them fat so that they couldn't get married either. I'm doomed. My future is doomed. My life is doomed. My future two, maybe three, kids are doomed. I'm going to Majorca."

With that, I got up and started to move determinedly towards the door. Harry grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the edge of the bed.

"You're not doomed, Ginny," he said.

I was in high disagreement. You could tell by my facial expression. Which was one of high disagreement.

"You aren't," Harry reiterated. "Because I have a plan."

"A plan?" I asked hopefully.

Harry nodded. "A plan."

I waited for him to continue. When he didn't, I punched him in the ribs. "Tell me the plan!" I demanded.

He coughed and rubbed at his ribs. Then he shrugged. "Get a new apartment."

I gaped at him.

"That's it?" I asked, incredulous. "Get a new apartment?"

"Well...yeah."

I stared at him in disbelief for another moment before I answered. "I can't just _get_ a new apartment, Harry. That requires money. Which I am a teensy bit short of at the moment."

Harry looked uncomfortable and brought a hand to the back of his head.

"Don't even, Harry," I warned, but he pretended not to hear me.

"I could loan you some, for the initial payment," he started.

" _No_ , Harry," my voice was obviously one that broke no argument, but once again Harry ignored me.

"You could just pay me back, when you're able to. When you're a full Mid-Witch. That's what? Two months?" he continued.

"Harry, I'm serious," I said, finally reaching out to put a hand over his mouth. "No."

He sighed against my fingers. "Whry mot?"

"Because!" I yelled, removing my hand. "I am not having my b-" here I stopped suddenly and looked at him uncertainly.

"Considering the number of times I've tried to snog you in the past few hours," he said, rolling his eyes, "I think it's appropriate for you to say 'boyfriend' right there." Then he seemed to realize what he'd said, smiled brightly, smiled hesitantly, and then looked altogether pensive. "If that's what you want, I mean. Because I'm not forcing you to...or anything, and-"

I ignored the giddy, excited feeling in my stomach at his words and instead interrupted him, and let me tell you, it was not easy.

"Shut up, Harry," I said, and his mouth snapped closed. "As I was saying: I am not having my boyfriend bail me out and pay for my apartment."

"It would just be a loan," Harry protested.

"That you would somehow find a way never to receive payment for. No, Harry. End of discussion."

Harry sighed and slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Alright," he said. "Alright."

I nodded in satisfaction and returned to looking gloomy.

"Good," I said. "Now that's out of the way we can move on to you."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"What about me?"

"Well," I said matter-of-factly. "We need to discuss how you're going to cope with having your girlfriend morphing into homely."

Harry chuckled and slid an arm around my waist. "You're not going to morph into homely, Gin. It's not possible."

"I'm sorry, have you ever met my mother? She _makes_ possible. Cooks it, probably."

Harry chuckled again. "Well, if we ignore the fact you're being ridiculous anyway," he put a hand to my mouth as I made to protest, "there's still a solution to the problem of moving in with your parents and morphing into homely."

I raised a brow in question. He shrugged.

"Don't move in with them."

I looked at him.

"I think you should consider retiring from the solution-making business. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm serious, Gin. If you don't want to move back in with them, then don't."

I glared at him. "If you're trying to make me change my mind about accepting your loan, it's not going to work."

Harry sighed. Then he took my shoulders in his hands and faced me. If I hadn't been in such a dilemma about my future habitat, I would have spent more time contemplating the warmth of his hands on my upper arms. As it was, I was only contemplating how long I could live in Majorca with the current amount in my bank account. It was looking grim.

"I'm not trying to make you change your mind," Harry argued. "I'm just trying to...modify my original plan a bit."

My eyes narrowed. "Modify how?"

Harry did his uncomfortable, insecure thing again. It made me suspicious.

"You could just...well, move in with...because Ron's gone now and everything, what with marrying Hermione, and..." he said, starting to flush a little.

I gaped at him.

"You want me to move in with you?" I was flabbergasted. The man takes four years to get up the nerve to even ask me to dinner, and already he's jumping to the 'let's make like rabbits' stage? It was incongruous. I began to suspect Imperius. I tried to get a good glimpse of his eyes behind his glasses to see if they were in any way glazed.

"NO!" Harry burst out, and I fell back away from him, nearly tumbling off the side of the bed.

"No," he said a little more calmly. Then, "Well, I mean...yes, but not in...not like...not like, you know, _that_ ," I nearly snorted at his inability to voice his thoughts on that subject. He was getting a bit better about that kind of thing, but obviously this was overstepping his limits. I found it cute.

He continued. "It would be in no way indecent. Temporary. It would be temporary. Until you become a full Mid-Witch and start making decent wages."

I thought about this.

"Only if I pay rent."

"No."

"Harry!"

"What? I'm not having my girlfriend paying me rent."

I punched him in the arm triumphantly. "See?" I exclaimed. "See what I mean about the loan?"

He didn't back down. "No, Ginny. End of discussion."

I glared at him for using my own words against me. Then I flipped my hair nonchalantly.

"Fine, then it would have to be indecent."

Harry flushed. "Wh-...Whuh?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't mean like that, you dolt," though I sort of did. To an extent. Partially. In the future, all you fools out there gasping and calling me a scarlet woman. We hadn't graduated from the couch yet. If we ever got to the couch, I mean.

"I mean, well...here's the thing. There are rules," I said.

"Rules?"

"Yes, rules," I nodded. "And the rules are, if you live in the same apartment as a man, and you don't pay rent, then you are a scarlet woman."

Harry frowned. "That's only one rule. And it's ridiculous."

"It's only one rule of _more than one_ , which, I will have you know, I would be breaking all of if I moved in with you," I said. "And it isn't ridiculous. It's true."

"No it isn't," Harry said. "And if there are more than one, name them."

" _Yes,"_ I said vehemently, "it _is_. And fine, if you're going to be difficult about it, I _will_ name the rest of them."

Here I stuck up one finger. "First, there's the toothbrush rule."

"The _toothbrush_ rule?"

"The toothbrush rule."

"That's dumb."

I glared at him. "If you want an explanation, you're going to have to _listen_ and stop insulting my rules." He closed his mouth.

"Good. So there is the toothbrush rule. The toothbrush rule states that if you have a toothbrush in the bathroom of a man's apartment, you are a scarlet woman."

I ignored Harry's snort and held up a second finger. "Then there is the towel rule. If you use the same towel that a man has used, in his apartment, getting out of his shower, then you are a scarlet woman," I looked at him. "And since your apartment has only one bathroom, I think that might be inevitable. Same as the toothbrush. Unless you'd rather me use yours."

Harry wrinkled his nose. I continued.

"Then there is the razor rule, which states that if, in sharing the bathroom with a man in his apartment, you use his razor blade because yours has gone dull, then you are a scarlet woman," I continued, ignoring Harry's look of disgust. "And then that leads me to the toilet seat rule, which states that-"

"-Okay, Ginny, I think I get the point."

I nodded and crossed my arms. "So you see why I can't move in with you and not pay rent. It'd break all the rules."

"The rules, to me, sound like a load of trollop." I gaped at him. "Well, they do!" he protested. "For one thing, they sound like how you might tell if a woman is living with you. Doesn't necessarily mean she's a scarlet woman. And besides, if I thought you might try and use my razor, I'd hide it."

I looked at him skeptically. "Well, alright. I'll give you the fact most of the rules don't really make you a scarlet woman. But the first one most definitely does. It's like the rule of all rules. You cannot live with a man and not pay rent without being a scarlet woman."

Not entirely true. You could also be their lover. More specifically, though, if you lived in an apartment with a man, whom you had not even snogged yet, let alone gone a date with, let alone shagged, then you were a scarlet woman. According to Mum, at least. And I was already in enough trouble with Mum over Ron's wedding.

Harry was silent a while as he thought, apparently resigned to the fact that I was not giving up on this point. Finally, he spoke.

"What if...what if you just paid for groceries?" he asked at last. I opened my mouth to respond with a sharp negative, having speculated he was going to come up with another way to either give me a loan or nullify my rent, but I stopped at the last second, mouth hanging open.

Groceries? The rules didn't say anything about groceries...

"Well," I said. "The rules don't say anything about groceries..."

Harry smiled brightly. "There! See? It'll be fine. You can pay for the groceries, and then you won't be a scarlet woman."

"I didn't say I'd agreed yet," I snapped, pretending to be deep in thought. Harry waited patiently beside me.

Then he said, quietly, with a whole lot of meaning,

"I have a couch..."

Oh, that was just playing dirty.

My eyes widened and I thought harder. Mainly, all the thinking was about a reasonable excuse to give in to Harry that made him not win the argument so fully. So, I decided I had to think about my other options. The ones that didn't have anything to do with couches. Which amounted to one. Which amounted to living on the streets. I decided I could pretty much handle living on the streets. I was a pretty touch cookie. People didn't mess with me.

It was Arnold I was worried about. Arnold wasn't a very tough cookie. He was just a little fur ball. Helpless. Defenseless. The bigger, meaner fur balls living on the streets would make fun of him and beat him up. It wouldn't be fair to move him out of house and home with me just because I could handle it while he couldn't.

Plus, like he said, Harry had a couch. And the thing about couches is they're really good leverage in situations like this.

I voiced this opinion to Harry, minus the thing about couches. He didn't need to know how much it had affected my decision. It would send him on a power trip.

He took the news seriously, nodding solemnly and patting poor Arnold gently, if not a bit warily, atop the head. Then we began shrinking all my furniture, which really only amounted to the bed, the bedside table, the chest-of-drawers, the kitchen table, and the couch, and banished the rest of the snow. Harry reparo'd the window, I gathered all the possessions left in a bag and left a nasty note to my landlord, and then we made our way over to the floo. Harry went first so that when he fell out of the fireplace he wouldn't squash me, and I followed right after.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you view it), I followed a bit too soon after, when Harry was still on the floor recovering from his fall out of the grate, and I tripped over his feet and landed sprawled on top of him.

" _Oof_ ," we both said.

"Well," Harry said.

"Hmm," I said.

"Squeak," Arnold said.

I dislodged his cage from between us and put it on top of Harry's coffee table. Then I made a big show of gasping and exclaiming and looking alarmed.

"Harry!" I exclaimed, looking down at him. "Your couch! It has neither been stolen nor covered with snow! However will we know what to do with it?"

A mischievous glint appeared in the eyes behind his glasses.

"I don't know," he said, reaching up to grab me by the waist. "We should experiment."

I squealed as he lifted me suddenly and scooted himself up enough so he could scoop my legs up. I laughed and pushed at his chest, blowing hair out of my face as he shuffled towards the couch on his knees and dumped me unceremoniously on to the cushions.

"Knave!" I yelled, still pushing at him. "Fiend! Brute of the highest degree!"

He laughed evilly as he crawled onto the couch and lowered his head to blow on my neck. I pushed myself back into the cushions, giggling madly.

"No!" I yelled, "No, stop! That tickl- ha ha ha- tickles!"

Harry let out another evil laugh as I struggled against him, and then, amidst the chaos, it was suddenly just like that day after the Quidditch game, my fifth year, when I'd run to him across the common room.

It was glorious. It was paradise. It was bliss. It was better than chocolate frogs for dinner.

It was interrupted.

"Nee-ha-ow!" came a voice from the fireplace, and our heads snapped up to stare towards it. Immediately, I clutched Harry's shirt and dragged him forcefully in front of me, blocking me from view.

After hours of waiting and numerous botched attempts, when Harry and I had finally managed to get settled in for a nice long snog session, the bride-chicken from hell decided to pop up in Harry's fireplace and interrupt.

"Shit, Harry," I said from behind him on the couch. "She's speaking in tongues. She's been possessed. A demon. We're doomed."

...Again.


	18. Howlers of Massive Proportions. Also, Dorsy

Howlers of Massive Proportions. Also, Dorsy.

"Erm..." Harry cleared his throat. "Er-huh, haha, uhm...hi, erm, Hermione."

The crackling of the logs in the fire was ominous. The nervousness in his voice was all-consuming. The ridiculous inarticulateness of his words was a death omen. The silence following them was heavy and suffocating.

It was like I was visiting home after more than a day of absence and was asphyxiating in the ample bosom of my mother. Though it could have been Harry's back that was doing the asphyxiating, since I did happen to be wedged between it and the back of the couch.

Which we were _not_ snogging on. Even though it had not been snowed upon, miniaturized, _or_ stolen. Something about the situation made me wonder what I had ever done to deserve such an ample quantity of horrendous karma.

I jabbed Harry in the back.

"Don't act so nervous!" I hissed. "You're exposing your weaknesses! Didn't they teach you not to do that in Auror school?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably from the poke in the spine and spoke to me from the corner of his mouth.

"They taught me to be _quiet_ when I was hiding from an _enemy_ in Auror school.So don't talk to me about exposing weaknesses," he said. "I'm not the one trying to disappear into the sofa cushions."

I scowled and raised my knee to dig it steadily harder into the small of his back. His hips pushed slowly outward with the motion, and I nearly giggled at the disturbing pelvic thrust Hermione was probably witnessing.

"There's really no need to whisper secretively. I can see your feet anyways, Ginny."

My eyes widened and knee froze at Hermione's proclamation. I slowly retracted my feet from their entanglement with Harry's own. Hermione snorted.

"Oh, honestly," she said. "You might as well just come out. It isn't as if I don't know what's going on."

At this I popped my head over Harry's shoulder and fixed Hermione with the most innocent expression I could muster. Which was difficult considering my air supply was rapidly being cut off by Harry's left elbow. Which does happen to be the hardest, pointiest part on the human body. Maybe aside from the incisors; those are a bit pointier. But they are quite difficult to jab into someone's diaphragm effectively, being that they are teeth, and are therefore located in the mouth. So, in that respect, the elbow is definitely the pointiest part of the human body. And I was witnessing first hand the pointiness. And it wasn't thrilling.

"Going on?" I squeaked, and in order to save face I'll tell you I only squeaked because Harry's elbow was puncturing my left lung, but really I think it had more to do with the fact that my future murderer was staring at me from within flame and destruction. "Nothing's going on. Why would you think there was something going on? Because there's nothing going on. When there's nothing going on there's nothing going on, and that's a fact. Which I would think you would have figured out by now what with all your researching. It's in all the textbooks. I'm sure. And if it isn't then now you know, don't you? Because there's really noth-"

Harry's hand covered my mouth and he stared down at me from where he had suddenly rolled me beneath him, thus leaving me out in the open and in Hermione's line of fire.

Overly Protective Male Importance Complex, Harry. Where the bloody _hell_ did yours fly off to?

"Ginny, I think she gets the point," he said in a voice that suggested that if he had been more coordinated, he would have been rolling his eyes at the same time. He turned to face Hermione.

"Despite the fact her babbling suggests otherwise, there really _was_ nothing going on," he said, and he sounded rather bitter about it. Like an unripe apple. Or a man who's been denied a snog.

"And that's the honest truth. I know because if there _had_ been something going on, that would mean I had relatively good karma. As it is, since we have so far been thwarted in every single attempt we have made to snog, I really wasn't expecting less than for your head to pop up in my fire and interrupt a perfectly innocent snog session with my goddamn girlfriend. In fact, I was prepared for Armageddon. Because that's the kind of shitty karma I get for killing an evil warlord. So thank you, Hermione, for allowing me such a pleasant surprise."

...Neat. Someone made Harry mad besides me. That hadn't happened in at least a week. Maybe two. Possibly the last few years, since offing Voldemort had made him so bloody cheerful all the time. Irritating, really. But I wasn't complaining. I rather liked him that way. Usually.

I watched Hermione's head stare out at us in what seemed like smug amusement, though that seemed a bit of a misplaced emotion, and then I looked up at Harry.

"Your Opmix is wonked," I informed him. "Broken completely. And I am not your goddamn girlfriend. If I were your goddamn girlfriend, you would probably be protecting me instead of putting me directly in harm's way, don't you think? And even if I was your goddamn girlfriend, which obviously I'm not since you're aiding and abetting in my future murder, I won't be your goddamn girlfriend for long because I'm probably about to die. So therefore I am not goddamn anything unless it's beautiful, sexy, any subsequent positive adjective, or maybe if we want to be more realistic about it, insanely close to death. And I'll thank you to remember that."

Harry stared down at me. Probably he was impressed with my speech. Probably he would now throw me behind him, whip out his wand, and dispel the evil bride-chicken from hell from the fireplace in order that I stay perfectly unharmed and able to snog him thoroughly.

Probably I was wrong.

"Opmix?" he wanted to know.

Bastard. What happened to the wand-whipping?

"Overly Protective Male Importance Complex," I informed him shortly, irritated at the lack of whippage. "All the men around me seem to have an excessively gargantuan one. Except for you, though. Apparently."

Harry stared at me for a minute. "Wouldn't it be Opmic, though?"

_Bastard_. Where was the plea for the right to call me his goddamn girlfriend? Where was the whippage? Where was the snogging? Where was it?

"Not if I invented it, pratface," I glared up at him. This time he was coordinated enough to roll his eyes and speak at the same time.

"Pratface isn't even a word, Ginny."

"Once again, _pratface_ , it is if I invented it."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by the head in the fireplace.

"Would you two stop bickering for two seconds?" Hermione said. "Honestly, you sound like me and Ron."

Harry and I stared at her in horror for at least seven and three-quarter seconds. She raised both eyebrows.

"I'm sorry I made up a word at you, Harry," I said, still staring at Hermione's head in the fireplace.

"I'm sorry for making fun of your acronym, Ginny," he returned, also continuing to stare at Hermione's head in the fireplace.

"I'm sorry for saying you can't call me your goddamn girlfriend. And I'm sorry for saying you weren't allowed to take care of Arnold when I die because you're completely unworthy of him."

Here Harry frowned and looked down at me in confusion.

"You didn't say that."

I looked at him blankly for a moment.

"Oh," I said. Then, "Well, I'm sorry for thinking it."

Harry nodded seriously before we both turned back to stare at Hermione's disembodied head.

"Quite all right," he continued. "I'm sorry for putting you in the line of fire."

"Brain farts happen to the best of us, dear."

I have a feeling things would have continued along this same line had not the head snorted in a distinctly unsophisticated manner. "Honestly," it said. Then, "Now we're all paying attention, can I say what I came here to say?"

Harry and I nodded slowly, neither of us quite over the alarming and rather daunting comparison thrown at us before. Ron and Hermione? _Ron_ and _Hermione_? Harry and I? Like Ron and Hermione? A mental snort is what that deserved. A giant mental snort. With a side of a nose-wrinkling of disdain.

"Nee-ha-ow!" Hermione cried again cheerfully, interrupting my mental snort, and I got the feeling that if she were standing up instead of kneeling with her head jammed in a fireplace, she would have bounced up and down happily like a kid let loose on Hagrid's stomach.

"She's speaking in tongues again, Harry," I mentioned, still watching her.

"I know," he answered. "Is that a bad sign, do you think?"

"I don't know. Did it sound like a menacing sort of tongue to you? Like a demon tongue, maybe?"

"I don't think so, but...well, I've never heard it before, so..."

"Should we maybe barricade ourselves behind the couch, for safety purposes? Just in case?"

"Yeah. Just in case."

Harry and I shifted as one, and started to climb over the back of the couch.

"Oh really!" Hermione exclaimed from behind us. "It's Chinese, you dolts. For hello."

I stopped climbing over the sofa, one leg thrown over the back of it, and looked over my shoulder at her.

"Chinese?" I wanted to know. "Oh! You're honeymoon! China! Hence the Chinese! How is it? Exotic? Wonderful? Gorgeous? Do you get to use chop-sticks? Does Ron even _understand_ the use of chop-sticks?"

I was off the couch and in front of the fireplace in two seconds flat. Once again, I'm blaming the X-chromosomes. Things like honeymoons...it's just programmed in a female to go completely girly over them.

Hermione giggled madly. If her hands hadn't been halfway across the world, I'm sure we would have clasped them together and squealed like schoolgirls talking about Yule Ball dates.

"It's incredible, Gin," she said, giggling again. "Wonderful. Amazing. _Ron_ is amazing..."

I closed my eyes in actual physical pain. "Alright, you're going to have to not say that again," I told her. "I can very easily go mad over your honeymoon with you, but it requires me blocking from my mind that it is my brother with which you are there."

I opened my eyes to see her rolling her own. Then I frowned.

"Where _is_ Ron, by the way? I wouldn't think he'd appreciate you leaving him to floo his best mate while you're supposed to be...well, anyway," I shook my head to get rid of the disturbing mental images. "Where is he?"

Hermione's face was remarkably unamused.

"Currently?" she wanted to know. "He's jabbing my left buttock with a chopstick."

I looked over her left shoulder to the wall behind her.

"Is he now?" I wondered. "You should fart on him. Tell him it's from me."

Hermione rolled her eyes again- Merlin she does that a lot- and looked behind me to Harry, who was now sitting on the back of the couch watching us. He looked distinctly sulky. I think his bottom lip was even poked out. He sighed, slumped his shoulders, stuck his elbows on his knees and his chin in his fists, and blew up on a strand of too-long hair falling down into his eyes. He looked like a kid who'd been having a grand old time bouncing on Hagrid's stomach, only to have his mother come and tell him it was extremely rude and to go sit in the corner and think about what he'd done.

Hermione and I both raised our eyebrows.

"I see he's rekindled his old habit of brooding," Hermione observed.

"Only since you showed up," I said. "Perhaps you emit some sort of angst hormone."

"Perhaps someone put something in his pumpkin juice."

"Perhaps he's having his mid-life crisis early."

"Perha-"

"Perhaps I can hear you and the reason I'm brooding is because this is the seventeenth time today I have been interrupted when trying to snog my girlfriend."

I quirked my mouth in understanding and turned my face to Hermione.

"Perhaps what he said," I told her. "Only it was more like the eighteenth time. Maybe even the hundredth."

She observed Harry for a moment more before rolling her eyes (Good Godric. Again! I pitied Ron when their children got to be teenagers.) and facing me.

"So he was serious about the girlfriend thing, then?"

" _Goddamn_ girlfriend, apparently," I answered, sounding nonchalant, but a goofy smile spread across my face despite the tone. Harry sighed exasperatedly again from behind me.

Hermione smiled at me smugly. "I knew it," she said.

"Of course you did, Hermione. You know everything," extreme sarcasm there. "So why didn't you say anything, then?"

"Not all of us with the Inner Eye choose to flaunt our powers and predict the deaths of innocent midgets in glasses."

I made impressed noises at Hermione's witty comment and exclaimed over the wonders a good honeymoon will do to a person's uptight ways, while Harry muttered behind me about being "tall as Ron now, and not a midget anymore, thanks." It went on like this for some time before Hermione finally exploded one of her logs, and Harry and I were reminded that we'd just recently blown up her cheese exhibit. And her wedding.

"Thank you," Hermione said as the sparks extinguished and her fire went back to crackling merrily. I was wary of it, though, and scooted back a few inches.

"As surprising as it may seem," she began, looking at both of us, "I did not merely come here to say nee-ha-ow. I came here also to discuss my wedding, and your involvement in ruining it."

Right, so...shite.

I heard Harry shifting on the couch behind me and realized he was moving to barricade himself behind it as originally planned. Briefly, I entertained the notion of perhaps looking into spending my savings on a new Opmix for Harry, instead of a permanent vacation to Majorca for myself. I figured that if I went to Majorca I'd end up selling both mine and Arnold's bodies on the streets for food, but if I found a new Opmix for Harry he'd feel the need to protect me at all costs and perhaps I'd live through the multiple explosions sure to occur in my presence in the very near future.

Problem was, I only had about 2.7 seconds until the first explosion, and that didn't give me enough time to go to Knockturn and see what they had available in terms of new Opmixes. So, I had to improvise.

Except I'm no good at improvising in 2.7 seconds or less, so Hermione started before I could do anything.

"Luckily for you," she began, "I've spent the last fourteen years of my life with two outstanding examples of chaos on feet, so I'm used to be magnetized for destruction."

I think that statement might have had the same effect on me as what would have happened if I'd tried to deliver a pizza to Medusa.

No yelling? No dieing? No body-selling? Only Hermione telling me, basically, that she wasn't going to disembowel me because she'd been best friends with a prat who was a klutz and the guy who saved the world?

So Harry was getting his Armageddon after all...

"-since you were both lying unconscious in the hospital and I was leaving on my honeymoon, so I've had time to think about it and I've decided that it was quite amusing," she was saying.

...Amusing? After all that bride-chicken from helling? Amusing? What?

"And anyways, once Ron woke up married and realized my right foot wasn't the Chudley Canon's keeper, he told me it was all for the best since he would have been absolutely twitchy the entire time and plus this will definitely give him the best wedding story at Weasley Christmases, and I'm inclined to agree with him."

I gaped at her. Harry gaped at her. Arnold gaped at her. The couch gaped at her. Everything was one giant gape with a side of gawk and astonishment.

"So..." I started. "So you're not...angry?"

"Oh, well I wouldn't say _that_. I _was_ angry, and if I think about it too much I still _am_ a titch since I _did_ plan the wedding for an entire six months only to have shagging rabbits pop out of my wedding cake, but for the most part I've gotten over it. I've learned to be quite resilient over the years," she said, blowing at a hair in her face.

"Plus," she continued thoughtfully, "it seems everyone's forgotten that Ron was passed out in the wake of the shagging rabbits. My relatives really are quite amazed at the advancements in firework technology."

There was more gaping. I think even the ceiling fan was gaping this time. And my left shoelace.

"So you're not going to..." Harry struggled for the right words.

"Disembowel us and feed us to the merpeople while saving our eyeballs and attaching them to the wall of Filch's toilet so we'll forever have to withstand the agony of watching Filch do whatever vulgar things he does in the nude?" I supplied him.

"Well put," Harry complimented.

"Active imagination," I answered.

"Not quite," Hermione responded to my inquiry. "But close. Excuse me while I go remove Ron's chopstick and jab him in the testicles to see how he likes it. I'd say goodbye in Chinese but I haven't learned that yet, so ta!"

Her head disappeared with a muffled pop! and Harry and I were left to stare at the dwindling flames in the grate with wide eyes and dread curling up comfortably in our stomachs, settling in for a visit.

"What do you suppose she meant," Harry asked, "when she said, 'but close'?"

"I'm not sure," I said, turning my head from the fireplace to look at him. "But I think it might have something to do with that." I pointed to the window over his left shoulder.

There, swirling down from the gray clouds of mid-morning, barreling towards our window in a distinctly out of control fashion, came six owls carrying between them something rectangular, red, and roughly the size of a couch. My couch, before it was miniaturized. Not Harry's, because his was a bit smaller than mine.

Regardless of its size though, it was obvious that it could only mean one thing and one thing only:

Doom.

"Is that..." Harry started squinting and moving closer to the window.

"It can't be..." I said, joining him at the window.

"Are you sure?" he wondered, putting his head so close to the glass that his breath fogged it up. "Because..."

"It's impossible to make them that big," I assured him, but as I myself got close enough to the glass for my breath to fog, I wasn't so sure. I'd seen Mum make dozens in the years when Fred and George were at Hogwarts and I wasn't, and they'd never been that big. Then again, this was Hermione's doom, and she could do pretty much anything. "It's...impossible...isn't it?"

Harry reached for the latch slowly.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never made one before."

I got my wand out absently and enlarged the window so that the thing that looked a lot like doom could fit inside. It was five buildings away now.

"It looks a lot like doom," I mention, as it closed the distance to two buildings.

"Yeah," Harry said, stepping to the side as the first owl entered with the first corner. "Or a Howler of massive proportions."

I wanted to argue with him and say that no, it definitely looked more like doom than a Howler of massive proportions, but then I would have been fabricating, since it definitely looked like both combined, and I've never been as good as I originally thought at the fabrication business. It did indeed look like a Howler of massive proportions, mainly because it _was_ a Howler of massive proportions. But also because it was flaming at the edges. So intensely, in fact, that half the room was filled with smoke almost before I'd had a chance to read the giant printed address across the front of it.

Msr. Harry James Potter & Mme. Ginevra Molly Weasley, it read.

PROBABLY _CONSPIRING_ TOGETHER

PLANNING TO _BLOW SOMETHING ELSE UP_

**_AND SABATOGE SOME MORE WEDDINGS_ **

Harry's Apartment

London

I looked over the top of the smoldering letter calmly to Harry's face across from me; he was staring at a flaming corner of humongous Howler with an unsurprised expression, like he was watching Fred and George put something into someone's pumpkin juice. Only with less amusement. A lot less.

"Don't suppose you have a machete on hand," I wondered of him. "I don't think a regular letter opener will survive a job of this proportion."

Harry shook his head sadly. "Nope," he said. "we'll just have to wait until it-"

The Howler finished for him as it exploded with such force that Harry and I were catapulted across to either side of the room, and the roof of Harry's apartment building jumped upwards and landed back with a great booming noise and earthquake-like shaking.

Hermione's enraged voice filled the room in a volume five times louder than that of the roof jumping. It was like a banshee, only worse, and it was also why, thirty minutes later, after she'd finally concluded her high decibel tirade with, "AND YOU'RE JUST LUCKY, GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY, THAT I CONJURED FAKE WATERFORD CHAMPAGNE FLUTES OR YOU'D BE LISTENING TO A HALF HOUR MORE OF THIS!", Harry and I both apparated ourselves to St. Mungo's to be treated for bleeding ears.

Literally.

"AT LEAST WE'RE NOT DISEMBOWELED!" I yelled to Harry as we walked down the corridor the receptionist at the Apparition Point had pointed to the moment we'd appeared in front of her holding our bleeding ears and wincing.

Harry turned his head to face me, both hands still firmly attached over his ears so that he looked vaguely like he was trying to imitate an elephant.

"WHAT?" he yelled back, and though I only heard a noise that sounded vaguely like a fog horn echoing from far off, after the sound waves had traveled through a rubber tube and soundproof walls, I could tell what he'd said. Because, you know, it's not very difficult to lip read the word 'what'.

"NEVERMIND!" I yelled back, deciding the effort was futile and my original optimistic statement really wasn't that important.

"WHAT?" Harry yelled again, and I just shook my head and turned back frontwards, continuing down the hall. Harry walked beside me. And everyone in the corridors around us peeked around corners and through the windows in doors with open mouths, trying to fathom what in the hell we were doing. I smiled at them and made an effort to wave with my elbow, since removing my hand from my ear would result in much ringing pain. Most of the gaping faces disappeared with this action, as it probably looked vaguely threatening. Or at the very least like I might have just escaped from the Closed Ward.

"THEY THINK WE'RE NUTTERS!" I yelled to Harry.

He frowned deeply in confusion. "WHAT?"

I sighed exasperatedly and rolled my eyes at him before turning back around and walking into Luna's hair.

"Hallo," I think she said.

"A HOWLER OF MASSIVE PROPORTIONS MADE US GO DEAF!" Harry and I yelled. In a sense. Both of us yelled things at her, and both of us yelled things at her that meant 'a Howler of massive proportions made us go deaf', but we didn't actually say those exact words together. That would have been unrealistically cosmic.

My exact words were, "We can't hear. And our ears are bleeding.," I believe, and Harry's were, I discovered later, "Hermione sent us a humongous Howler. And our ears are bleeding." All Luna had to do was use her deductive reasoning skills to figure out what had happened.

She said something to us, I have no idea what, and led us into a room at the end of the corridor. It was exactly like the one from that morning. It made me want to cry.

Luna stuffed gauze into our ears, said something else to us and left the room. Harry and I stared at each other. He raised an eyebrow. My eyes widened in surprise at first, then I bit my bottom lip thoughtfully. He twitched his nose. I smiled.

In sign language, this meant that we'd decided it wasn't necessary to have properly functioning ears in order to snog. Also that it _was_ necessary to hurl ourselves at each other from across the room with much haste in order that we not be interrupted again.

It worked. Harry and I crashed together in the middle of the room and my hands fisted immediately in his hair. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me to him so that I went up on my toes. And finally, after seventeen, eighteen, or maybe even a hundred thwarted attempts, Harry and I snogged. Sufficiently. Harry backed me up to the wall, my toes barely touching the floor by now, and we continued.

It was intense. It was bliss. It was amazing.

And then it was wet. Very _very_ wet.

Harry and I broke apart suddenly, gasping, and all my weight was suddenly back on my feet. I removed my hands from his hair quickly to grab his shoulders and regain my balance, before finally turning to see Luna standing beside us, shaking her wand of excess water. She said something and smiled at us, and I felt Harry's head fall to my shoulder in frustration. A few rapid little puffs of air brushed against my neck, and I realized he was whimpering. I patted the back of his head comfortingly, though I felt quite the same.

"WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" I yelled at Luna. She answered, but I couldn't hear what it was she said. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" I yelled.

She waved her wand and wrote out words in the air.

_It was obvious you'd been possessed by Snoggleburts._

I must have made some sort of exasperated movement, because Harry turned his head slowly from its place buried in my neck to read Luna's words. His whole body sagged after he'd read them, and he buried his head deeper in my neck. I patted him again.

I almost asked Luna what exactly a Snoggleburt was, but I realized probably it didn't much matter, and also I needed her to fix our ears as quickly as possible since my throat was starting to hurt from yelling so loudly. Plus, it was rather obvious that it had something to with snogging.

"FIX OUR EARS!" I yelled, and Luna pulled a potion from her green Healer's robes. I put my arms on Harry's shoulders and pushed him away from me gently, pointing to the potion in Luna's hand. He looked at it without expression before turning back around and once again burying his face in my neck. I looked over his shoulder at Luna.

"HE'S SUFFERING FROM THE AFTER-EFFECTS OF A HUNDRED AND ONE FOILED ATTEMPTS TO SNOG ME!" I informed her as I grabbed the potion from her hand and drained it.

It tasted like earwax. I gagged.

"I HAVE A POTION FOR THAT!" Luna yelled at me, referring to Harry's predicament with snog withdrawal, and I immediately grabbed my ears again and fell to the floor in pain. Harry was caught off guard and fell forward, smashing his head against the cement wall and crumpling to the floor beside me. He groaned and it sounded like a train crashed in my head.

I moaned. "Luna," I whispered, and in my head my voice sounded like a muffled banshee scream. I winced.

"Luna, why are you yelling?" I finished whispering.

"I'M NOT," she yelled, and as my eardrums were beat upon by an entire tribe of aborigines who were convinced drums were evil incarnate, I really begged to differ. "IT'S AN UNFORTUNATE SIDE EFFECT OF THE POTION!"

I would have snorted, but I thought it would probably kill me, so I didn't. Harry reached out feebly with the hand he wasn't holding to his smashed head and grabbed his potion from Luna. He drained it.

"Ugh," he said, grimacing. "Earwa-aaahhh!"

He shut his mouth quickly and attached his hands firmly over his ears.

"Loud," he whispered. "Pain."

I scooted away from his echoing voice, glaring at him.

"Shh," I whispered as softly as possibly, and we both winced and pressed against our ears harder.

Luna squatted down before us. "It'll only last for five to seven hours," she whispered. "Don't worry about it."

Harry and I both curled into each other trying to muffle her voice.

"Sweet Merlin," I breathed, and Harry flinched away from me at the noise. "Five to seven hours..."

Luna held out a fist and opened her fingers to reveal four squiggling orange...things.

"What..." Harry said, peering at them, "the bloody fu-"

Luna interrupted. "Earplugs," she said simply, and Harry and I both lunged for them.

We were thwarted, however, when Luna was suddenly pulled away from us into the arms of someone who vaguely resembled a demented version of a clown on Mandrake fumes.

Dorsy Boardman, son of the ex-rock-star Stubby Boardman and professional conspiracy theorist for The Quibbler, kissed his fiancee with an exorbitant amount of tongue. Apparently today was one of his Muggle infiltration days, where he entered the general Muggle population in search of missing and/or dead wizards who'd decided to take over the world by controlling Muggle hot dog vendors, as he was wearing a white button-up shirt that looked a bit like someone had dumped a tub full of black earthworms onto it, bright green shorts, black and white checkered shoes, and a camera around his neck. He also had a squashed-looking hat on his head and his socks came up mid-shin. I looked at Harry.

"How come they get to snog and we don't?" I whispered softly. He looked at the kissing couple with a distinct lack of amusement.

"Because surviving assassination attempts by a psychopath just isn't enough for the world," he whispered back. "And because Dorsy doesn't have your mother as an in-law and therefore has no manners. Also because our karma is dreadful."

I tipped the corners of my mouth down in agreement and turned back to watch Luna and Dorsy.

"Well then how come..." I stopped for long enough to allow my voice to stop echoing in my head. "...how come they get to remain dry?"

Harry cut his eyes to me. "Because apparently they aren't possessed by Snoggenwarts. Be quiet. You're hurting my ears."

It was at about this time when Dorsy de-suctioned himself from Luna's face and turned to grin at Harry and me.

"HALLO, GINNY!" he yelled, and it was worse because Dorsy always talked as if he were trying to have a conversation in the middle of a Weird Sisters concert. He turned to Harry. "HALLO, HARRY!" He leaned closer to Harry conspiratorially, and amidst his agony, Harry whimpered and pressed himself against the wall behind him in an attempt to get away from the madman. "And Albus!" He said it in what he considered a whisper but that sounded more like an air horn. To Harry and me, at least. In real life, when we didn't have magnified hearing, it sounded like he was making an announcement to a very large room full of deaf people.

Dorsy was convinced that Albus Dumbledore had staged his own death, with Harry in the know, and implanted himself in Harry's brain in order to help him win the War. And also to make the best decisions on purchasing socks. Apparently Harry traveled to New Zealand every year in order to purchase the finest woolen socks.

I happened to know for a fact that the only socks Harry owned were mismatched ones made by a mad house elf.

Harry groaned and banged his head against his knees repeatedly. He'd attempted to explain to Dorsy multiple times that there was a definite lack of deceased Dumbledores in his brain, but the man didn't seem to want to accept it. It was the reason Harry was a groomsman in Dorsy's wedding. Dorsy said that he couldn't pass up a chance to have the two-in-one package that was both defeaters of evil warlords in the last century combined at his wedding.

"Luna," I whimpered. "Can you please give us those ea-"

"WHY ARE YOU WHISPERING?" Dorsy interrupted, and Luna placed a hand on his arm. Harry and I writhed on the floor in agony. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM?"

"Hermione Weasley sent them a Howler of massive proportions," she whispered to him, "And it exploded they're ears. They were also possessed by Snoggleburts."

"OH-HO-HO!" Dorsy exclaimed delightedly, and then he looked contrite at our expressions of pain. "I mean, oh-ho-ho!" he said in his ridiculous whisper. "The creatures that create the irresistible urge to snog. Luna and I have been possessed by those before. Just now, in fact."

Luna waved a hand in front of her face. "This room must have an infestation," she whispered. She turned to Dorsy. "Why are you dressed like a mad Muggle?"

Dorsy stepped back proudly to model his outfit. "Because I'm going undercover as a tourist!" he said.

Well then, that explained it. Not that bad an outfit for that, then. Just a bit...unconventional. And not the most stealthy of choices. Especially since it was February. Which meant snow and large winter coats that made people look like mutated marshmallows.

"Luna! The earplugs! Please!" I begged.

Luna turned from her fiancee slowly. "Oh," she said. "Here you go." Harry and I ripped the earplugs from her palm and thrust them in our ears. There was an uncomfortable sensation of something alive wriggling down my ear canal, and then all the sound around me disappeared completely.

I looked up at Luna in surprise. "Luna," I said, and I wasn't positive if I'd actually gotten it out or not being that I heard nothing at all. It was an odd sensation. Like what I imagined it would be like trying to have a conversation in outer space. "I can't hear anything..."

Luna took out her wand to write in the air again.

_An unfortunate side effect of the earplugs_ , she informed, and Harry and I both buried our faces in our hands.


	19. Sticking Tongs in Sockets

 

How Mum Found Out about Harry and my Illicit Love Affair Involving Salad Tongs

(Sticking Tongs in Sockets, for short)

For most of my life, or at least the part of my life in which I have been able to understand the concept, I have considered myself to be a sane, semi-normal human being. Sure I have the occasional irrational outburst or unusual reaction to a mostly normal event, but for the most part, I am your average twenty some-odd year old witch.

(Stop looking at me like that. The tuna incident was an accident. An _accident_.)

(Well...)

(Maybe it was a _little_ bit on purpose...)

(But mostly it was an accident.)

(Mostly.)

So, since I _am_ a normal twenty some-odd year old witch, it is fairly odd to me when I end up in situations in which I seriously wonder whether or not I have not been hit by some stray brain-melting curse and therefore have the need to spend the rest of my days in St. Mungos. And it is _especially_ odd to me when I end up in a situation in which I know I haven't been hit by a stray curse and therefore know I have no reason at all to be hearing a rug in a Muggle airport saying, "Bloody fuck. I just wanted the peanuts."

The addition of the phrase involving a small legume was of particular concern to me. That was most distinctly Not Average.

This is where I suppose I should explain how a rug in a Muggle airport happened upon the ability to speak, furthermore why it was speaking to me specifically, even furthermore why it was speaking to me specifically about peanuts, and the absolute furthermost how Mum discovered Harry and my illicit love affair involving salad tongs.

(Did I mention I was having an illicit love affair with Harry that involved salad tongs?)

(Because I was. In a sense. Partially. Mostly the salad tongs were an unfortunate accident.)

(Mostly.)

So this is how it started:

The clock beside Harry's sofa showed three o'clock, and I wished fervently I had noticed the time when Harry and I had finally left St. Mungo's. It had to have been five to seven hours. _At least_ it had to have been five. Maybe only four and fifty-nine sixtieths in which case I only had another minute left in hell.

I watched Harry's right index finger tap the charred edge of his couch and counted.

"How _long_ has it been?" I exclaimed when no sounds registered in my brain after sixty finger-to-fabrics. Harry's finger stopped and he moved his head slightly from its position wedged into the back of the worn-in sofa cushion.

"Five minutes after the last time you asked me," he said, looking at me through his eyelashes without amusement. His head moved back to its original position and he resumed his staring at the ceiling whilst tapping his finger.

I glared at him, "Well _excuse me_ for wanting my hearing back Mr. Broody-pants."

His chest thrust outwards shortly and I realized he'd snorted.

"Very witty, Gin," he moved nothing but his finger and lips. I reddened. I hadn't meant for him to actually comprehend that insult. I would have made up something more original if I'd known he was watching me.

"How'd you know that's what I said? You weren't looking at me."

Harry and I'd spent the last four and fifty-nine sixtieths hours perfecting the art of lip reading. When it becomes a necessity to do so, it isn't really all that difficult. In the first hour or so we had had a bit of a confrontation when the word "snog" was mistaken for "frog," and the resulting large empty space on the couch between us wasn't as surprising as one might originally believe. Not surprising at all, really, when in the end I'd finally exclaimed, "What kind of psychotic sexual favor are you _asking_ me for, Harry?"

Needless to say, we'd gotten slightly better since that particular incident. Though Harry seemed to have surpassed me in lip-reading skills.

"It's called peripheral vision," he said sarcastically (I could tell because he always rolled his eyes when he was being sarcastic), and then he blew the fringe from his face. I positioned myself squarely in his so-called peripheral vision and raised both my middle fingers. He quirked a brow and turned to face me slowly.

"Unladylike," he proclaimed, "Rude. Uncouth."

I tossed my hair back and glared harder, keeping my fingers firmly in place.

He seemed to contemplate me for a moment.

"And surprisingly sexy," he concluded, glancing over at me slyly from the corners of his eyes, and suddenly I was beneath him on the couch, his head in my neck and his breath fanning across my collarbone.

"Oh!" I said, eyes wide. And then, " _Oh_...well...carry on, then..."

The next hour and fifty-eight sixtieths was spent very wisely. It had taken far too long, but we had finally got that thorough snog session fit into our schedules. Not that either one of us had very busy schedules, of course. It was just that people rather liked to interrupt us whenever we were snogging.

Rather annoying habit people had, that. Though I suppose you could look at it from the other direction and say that Harry and I might be snogging a bit too much, but seeing as how at the moment I couldn't even contemplate ever thinking such a thing as that, that conclusion becomes moot.

I was further disheveling Harry's hair and his hand was creeping ever closer to the edge of my sweater when I heard something. It sounded somewhat like a burp. My eyes flew open and my nose wrinkled. I nearly pulled back in total disgust at having been subjected to such a snogging faux pas (honestly, _burping_ into my _mouth_? Talk about rude and uncouth...), when I realized something.

I'd heard the burp. Burps cannot be heard unless one's ears are functioning properly. Which, as we all know, mine were _not_ since Luna gave me the earplugs from hell.

Therefore, the Hearing of the Burp could only mean One Thing:

My ears were functioning properly.

"MY EARS ARE FUNCTIONING PROPERLY!" I screamed at Harry, and then blinked suddenly at the volume of my voice. Apparently we'd been unknowingly screaming at the top of our lungs for the last five and seven-sixtieths (give or take a few) hours. I briefly wondered if the Ministry would show up soon to reprimand us on revealing the existence of magic to the Muggles living on either side of Harry's apartment. Also the ones living on Harry's entire street. And this end of London.

Then I winced as Harry blew my eardrums out.

"WHAT?" he wanted to know. I reached up and put a hand on his mouth and then placed a finger over my lips.

"You just burped in the middle of our snog session and I am disgusted," I stated, scowling at him.

"I DID NOT!" Harry screamed, shaking my hand off. "THAT'S REVOLTING!"

I winced again and smacked my hand back over his mouth. Now I considered it, it had sounded less like a burp than I had originally thought. Maybe it sounded more like I'd just swam down to the bottom of the pond behind the Burrow and my ears had popped. Perhaps it had only been the earplugs finally wearing off.

Oh.

False accusation.

Oops.

Luckily I am a master at changing the subject and distracting a person from informing me of my mistakes. It's a rather convenient talent, if I do say so myself.

"Okay well, regardless, you're rivaling Dorsy on a holiday weekend," I informed.

Dorsy was always loudest on holiday weekends because Muggles always ate the most hot dogs on holiday weekends. The hot dog vendors did ridiculous business on holiday weekends, and therefore Dorsy spent the entire time attempting to blend in as a Muggle tourist and discover the vendors' (or at least the supposedly dead wizards controlling them) evil conspiracy to destroy the world.

So far, he had yet to succeed. Though he did come quite close one time when he overheard a Muggle mention that a certain vendor must be magic, because he'd never seen a hot dog made so fast in his life. Turned out the guy was just really good at making hot dogs. Dorsy was disappointed but undeterred. Even after the formal dissertation and inquiry he faced by the Ministry of Magic for the "unprovoked and insufficiently explained attack on a Muggle purveyor of nourishment."

According to Dorsy, hot dogs had no nutritional value whatsoever, and therefore the formal dissertation was a load of bollocks.

"Oh," Harry said in response to my comparison. Then, he looked insulted. And then he just looked confused, "Wait, you can hear me?"

I grinned and nodded up at him. He pouted.

"That isn't fair..." he mumbled, looking remarkably like Malfoy would if he was forced to wash his own underwear for a change. Though I'm not entirely certain that analogy works anymore since I don't know whether or not they wear underwear at Azkaban.

Either way, though, I doubted-if they did wear underwear there- that it was made of the finest Acromantula silk, and therefore I bet Malfoy was miserable. The thought made me smile.

Which, in turn, made Harry's frown deepen.

"What's so amusing?"

"I was thinking about Malfoy's underwear."

Harry looked absolutely revolted for about five seconds before his eyes widened and he jumped off of me as if I'd been a hag using polyjuice and it had worn off.

"Malfoy's underwear makes you _smile_?" Harry yelled hysterically, pointing at me. "You've seen Malfoy's underwear? Why? When? Where?"

I opened my mouth to speak but didn't get the chance.

"No," Harry said, turning away. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I _do not_ want to know. If you tell me I'll kill myself. Then you'll be responsible for my untimely death and Romilda Vane will have a field day in the tabloids and Myrtle will probably give you a swirley and then haunt you until you die," he stopped and seemed to contemplate for a moment. "Which will be when Dobby suffocates you in your sleep with a sock. That has large numbers of weasels sewn on it."

My eyes widened a bit at his creativity.

"Wow," I said, staring at his back. "If I'd known mentioning Malfoy would get you in this much of a tizzy, I'd've done it a lot sooner."

Harry snorted. "Huh," he said. "Well I doubt you'll have the chance anymore because if you've seen Malfoy in his..." he seemed unable to finish his sentence, his face twisting into a multitude of different expressions, all of which displayed his enormous disagreeableness with the idea of his girlfriend being in any sort of situation in which she saw his arch rival in his underwear. "In his...his..."

"Frilly knickers?" I suggested.

Harry shuddered. "Right...those. If you've seen Ferretface in his...hold on a minute, _frilly_?"

He seemed unable to decide whether he should still be completely revolted that I knew enough about Malfoy's underwear to describe them, and completely delighted that they were frilly and therefore qualified as yet another thing to add to the running list of Malfoy's humiliations he and Ron had composed. It served to cheer them on a bad day.

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Harry, I have no id-"

"No, stop. I don't want to know. Even if he does wear lacy women's undergarments, I don't want to know if you've seen them."

"But Harry, I haven-"

"No, stop, no more, stop talking, I don't want t- ...wait a tick, did you just burp?"

Harry whipped around to face me and I raised an expectant eyebrow. He pointed at me.

"I heard you burp," he stated.

"You heard the earplugs wearing off. It sounds like a burp. _I_ am too ladylike to burp."

Which was entirely untrue, but Harry was too preoccupied to argue.

"Oh," he said. "So that means...I can hear."

"Hmm. Logically, I'd say yes, that is true."

"But then...that means...but...oh," he said. I raised a brow.

"Problem?" I asked him. He seemed confused for a moment. Then his eyes flashed behind his glasses and he pointed a finger at me accusingly.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, backing away again. "You've seen Malfoy in his frilly knickers and I won't stand for it! I won't stand for it, Ginny!"

I blinked. The remark reminded me so very much of Ron that for a moment I expected his hair to turn red and freckles to sprout up on his face.

"You won't...stand for it?" I repeated, utterly turned inside out at the image in my head of my brother superimposed over my boyfriend.

"Not even for a minute!" Harry said furiously, still pointing.

I burst into laughter.

"Oh gods, Harry, you are too much sometimes," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes and then moving over to him. I slid my hands beneath his obstinately folded arms and pressed myself up close against him. He ignored me and turned his sulking face away, refusing to look down.

"Harry, come on, look at me."

There was no response.

"Please? I have something important to tell you."

Still no response. I sighed.

"Harry, if you don't look at me I will be forced to write to Romilda and give her your exact address and the times of day in which you can be found at home. I will also inform her that you are a boxers bloke, not a briefs one, and that you are looking for hot-blooded male to become life partners with."

Harry glared down at me begrudgingly. I nodded in satisfaction.

"There, see? Not so hard," I grinned at his deadpan expression. Then I gave him a serious face.

"Harry, I have never, nor will I ever, nor do I have the smallest desire to ever, nor can I even contemplate ever, seeing Malfoy in his undergarments. I was amused because I was thinking that he might be having to wash his own at Azkaban."

Harry stared down at me warily before giving a tentative smile.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really," I nodded. Then I gave him a mock glare. "And I am insulted that you have such a low opinion of me as to think I'd like seeing such a scarily pale atrocity. It might blind me."

Harry grinned and slid his arms around me.

"Well then, I'll just have to make up for it, won't I?" I giggled as we tumbled back onto the couch. Seeing as how I can't describe the events that occurred for the next while in any sort of appropriate fashion, I'll skip ahead a bit...Here is what happened next:

BAM!

Then,

"BURP!"

"UGH! _Harry_!"

I leapt off from on top of Harry (the BAM! I mentioned earlier was the resulting sound after Harry and I tried to roll over and misjudged the width of the couch) and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"That was not an earplug sound!" I accused. "You just burped!"

Harry stared at me. "Yes, well, that can sometimes happen..."

"We were _snogging_ ," I elaborated. Harry grinned.

"Yes, well, that can sometimes happen as well. Oftentimes, actually. Five times in the past two days, in fact. Perhaps we should make it six, don't you think?"

I swatted Harry's hands away from my hips as he reached up to pull me back towards him, and extricated myself fully from his sprawled form.

"You just-" I tugged my foot out from beneath his leg, " _burped_ while we were _snogging_."

"Not true," Harry said, grabbing hold of my receding foot. "We weren't snogging at the time of my burp."

I shook my foot. He didn't let it go.

"Only because we'd just _fallen off the couch_."

I changed tactics, turning around to grab the edge of the bookshelf and trying and pull my foot away. This turned out to be a bad idea, considering Harry had a sizeable strength advantage to the bookshelf, I had a death grip on the second shelf from the bottom, and the entire thing was filled with so much junk that it was dangerously unstable to begin with. What happened next should not come as a particular surprise.

"Crap," Harry and I said in unison as the bookshelf wobbled forward precariously, balanced on its front edge for half a second, and then toppled over, crashing into the coffee table and sending my miniature couch careening off the edge. The coffee table shot forward violently from the impact, smashing Harry in the side of the face, and then the bookshelf finished its chaotic fall with a thunk as it collapsed the rest of the way from the low-lying table and rested face down on Harry's living room floor.

I stood frozen, attempting to figure out how I had managed to escape the chaos unscathed. Apparently I had been standing in the exact right spot when the bookshelf toppled to have it fall at such an angle as to have my body fit through the top shelf like a quaffle through a hoop. Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but the first thing that I felt upon this realization was pride that this event could occur without the aid of Hermione's corset.

"Wow," I said, staring down at the piles of miscellaneous objects now strewn about the room. "Was there even a book on that bookshelf, or was it just completely filled with junk?" I examined a cracked Sneakoscope and a small replica of a Muggle Ford Anglia lying at my feet as I said this.

"Unnngghh," Harry replied.

I yelped as I remembered his near-fatal collision with the coffee table.

"Harry!" I said, nearly tripping as I tried to maneuver my way through the jumble. "Are you alright?"

Harry sat up woozily, and I kneeled down to help him.

"Mah faish," he said, the statement nearly incomprehensible due to the swollen nature of his left cheek. "Hurtsh."

I tutted and clucked and firmly neglected the idea that I was acting like my mother in doing this as I pulled out my wand and muttered incantations over Harry's face. His cheek began to go down, and the bruise stopped spreading.

"There are perks," Harry said, reaching up to touch gingerly the place where I was healing him, "to dating a Healer in training."

"Hmmm," I said, gingerly picking a knitted sock off his chest. "Well don't get more than minor injuries, because what I just did is about as far as I go unless you have female parts. What is this?" I raised an eyebrow at him and held the sock up beside my head.

He glanced at it. "A sock. How do _you_ know I don't have female parts?"

"You had better not have female parts, Harry Potter, because that would be a very large act of deception on your part and I would be supremely angry. Why does this sock have demented versions of my face sewn all over it?"

"Dobby made it. But how do you know I'm not deceiving you? You've never checked." He grinned at me cheekily and his hands crept up past my thighs and over my waist.

I felt my body heating as the places his hands touched underneath the fabric of my sweater seemed to catch fire. I thought it appropriate that even with the massive amount of junk Harry and I were kneeling in, not one piece of it happened to be a wand or a fire extinguisher. Harry's hands finally reached their goal and I gasped, my eyes closing and my head tilting back of its own accord.

"Why would Dobby...sew my face...on...your socks?" I wanted to know, nearly whimpering as Harry's lips grazed my neck.

"Because he's insane," Harry said simply, his breath fanning over my neck and sending my heart into spasms. "And he calls you my Miss Wheezy. Now stop talking."

I obeyed him, and Harry and I occupied ourselves quite successfully over the next ten minutes. I'm sure things would have gone uninterrupted for much longer but for one thing...

"Harry?" I moaned as Harry's lips immediately returned to my neck when I pulled away and tried to speak to him.

"No talking," he mumbled against my neck. I found it difficult not to obey once again.

"Okay," I managed. "But there's...something...pulling...my hair."

My mind cleared just slightly as Harry's head came up and he frowned at my hair.

"Huh," he said, reaching up to tug at whatever was pulling at my hair.

I yelped as he tried to untangle the object and slapped his hand away.

"Sorry," he said, but he was too preoccupied to notice my glare. "How in Merlin's name did these get here?"

I rubbed my head where he'd pulled and peered at the object in his hand.

" _Salad tongs_?" I asked, baffled.

"It appears so."

"Do you even know how to _use_ salad tongs?"

Harry put on a mock insulted face. "Excuse me? I do believe I've told you about my cooking abilities. With these comes exceptional skill with kitchen utensils-including, but by no means limited to, this pair of salad tongs."

I remained skeptical. I expressed this via a raised eyebrow.

Harry drew himself up proudly and snapped the tongs together briskly.

"The lady requires a demonstration!" he declared. I giggled at his knightly attitude. And then I squealed.

"Harry! What are you _doing_?"

"Demonstrating," Harry declared simply as he pinned me to the ground and slid the tongs beneath my jumper, pulling upwards slowly. "Not many people know the proper use of the salad tong," he said seriously. "Luckily, you are in the presence of an expert."

I struggled to keep my face impassive. "Oh really? And just how much practice did getting to this level of expertise require?"

I never got to hear Harry's response to this query (which actually I'm rather peeved about. I would have liked to know just how many speculated girlfriends Harry has made unspeculated via his salad tong skill), as at that exact moment, the fireplace let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

And then it screamed my name.

"GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY!"

Harry and I scrambled off of each other, clutching our ears in pain. It was the most certain I'd ever been in my life that the world was ending, and that includes the infamous Last Battle in which the Most Evil Wizard of All Time exploded completely, turned into a swirling black vortex of doom, and took with him all the other Secondary Evil Wizards of All Time and also Half a Random Hilltop and a Cow (poor thing, it was just an innocent bystander. I made them add it to the list of casualties at the end of the War. Luna was the only one who didn't find the action quite silly, but she was convinced the cow was a reincarnation of Nearly Headless Nick's long lost cousin, so it wasn't much in the way of proving my sanity). It even includes the time Fred and George partook in a one hundred percent genuine gesture of kindness towards me and bought me six bouquets of roses. Granted, it was because I'd nearly died during one of their epic Experiments and was lying in St. Mungo's with my left arm newly re-attached, but that's beside the point.

The point is that I was ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent sure that the world was ending because the best snog session I'd ever had in my life had just been extinguished by a flaming head sitting atop a log in Harry's fireplace, and it looked absolutely identical to my mother's. Apparently Fate's chosen form of Doom for Harry and I were flaming, fulminating, female heads with attitude problems and unusually shrill voices. I thought it all rather fitting, what with my ridiculous karma and all. And also the fact that the irony was just too good to pass up. Screeching Mum Head shows up just after Five-to-Seven-Hour Earplugs wear off. Priceless.

" _What_ are you doing, young lady?"

She was hissing now. Quietly. Which I knew from experience meant Very Immediate Danger for me. Last time she hissed quietly at me was when I'd tried to sedate her and escape to join the Heroic Trio of Idiots in their quest to Eradicate the World of Evil. Too bad Professor Snape was so lousy at teaching potions to Gryffindors else I would have known that frog's eyes and toad's eyes were separate things entirely and produced quite the opposite result from one another. Mum ended up so _awake_ that she had the energy to lecture me for eight hours straight on why I should never try and slip sleeping potions to my elders. And then she forced me to help cook dinner with her. For the twenty-five injured people we had staying at our house.

I wondered how long Floo powder actually lasted. Certainly it stopped working before eight hours passed. It had to have a limit, didn't it?

...Didn't it?

"Ginevra," she hissed again, and I gulped and crawled a bit more away from Harry, who was by this time staring at the fireplace and looking quite as if Romilda Vane were coming at him with a box of love-potion-laced chocolates in one hand and a set of fuzzy pink handcuffs in the other. I think he was contemplating which he would rather face: my Mum's blazing (I'm being very literal here) temper, or Romilda Vane's sadistic fantasies come to life.

It looked like he was having a hard time deciding.

"I was just-" I started, but Mum exploded a log and I experienced such an overwhelming sense of deja vu that dragged with it a feeling of impending doom that I gulped and scooted backwards a bit, re-evaluating my decision to remain in London rather than flee to Majorca.

"Oh I know what you were doing, Ginny Weasley, because this morning's _tabloid_ told me all about it!"

"But Mum, I-"

"Don't you 'but Mum' me, young lady. I will not be hearing any 'but Mum's today!" the massive amounts of red hair atop her head positively exploded in flames as she continued. "To think I popped over here to have a good laugh about it with Harry dear and find out that it is all _quite true_!" She gathered herself into her patented "angry Mum lecture" stance, which was really rather incredible considering she managed to do it with only her facial muscles as the rest of her was kneeling in the Burrow's kitchen fireplace.

The she began Listing. Mum always Lists. It's her favorite thing to do when she's angy.

"Underhanded seduction and illegal potion-making! Eliciting the help of a vertically challenged person!" began the list.

There was only one defense to the List. I'd perfected it over the years. I call it Purposeful-Pigheadedness. Double P for short.

"Oh honestly," I Double P'd. "He wasn't _vertically challenged_ , he was an actual dwarf!"

"Putting spells on Muggle artifacts!"

"-And besides, I didn't even elicit help from him because-"

"-Decorating an apartment in a ridiculously tacky fashion-"

"-that dwarf doesn't even exist, and anyways I wouldn't need the help of a dwarf to seduce Harry. I can do it all on my own. Also-"

"-Kissing in public places-"

"-it isn't even your business whether or not I elicit the help of a dwarf for an underhanded seduction since I am _twenty-one_ years old and therefore-"

"All in _our family_! Oh, the shame! The shame! My very own daughter behaving like a...like a-"

"-old enough to take care of myself and decorate properly, which you'll see I've done as there are _no_ harem-themed pieces in this apartment like the tabloid says. Furthermore-"

"-like a SCARLET WOMAN!"

I gasped and widened my eyes, effectively cutting my tirade off before I started in on how hurt I was that my very own mother thought I could be a sadistic psychopath who grew her own Majorcan love leaves to feed to the man she'd been obsessed with since she was five. Did she really think I was that pathetic? I hadn't yet invested in the love leaves. And I was working on the obsession bit. Though perhaps my method of snogging him until we both passed out was rather defective.

But at least I was trying.

Honestly.

" _Excuse me_?" I hissed, adopting the same tone she'd originally used. I'm pretty sure my eyes caught fire just like her hair because Harry glanced at me, glanced at Mum's flaming head, glanced at the couch, and then slowly began to crawl around behind it.

Mum and I ignored him.

"You heard me," Mum hissed, glaring at me now with eyes housing their very own Muggle circus dagger throwers. "My daughter is a _scarlet woman_."

I gasped again, throwing a hand over my heart for good measure.

"She's a scarlet woman and she's dragged a perfectly nice boy who might as well be my son into being a...a...a _scarlet man_! You two are being scarlet...scarlet...scarlet people together!"

Harry's flat rang with silence while I stared at her. I was in shock. Not only had my Mum just listed Harry, her "might as well be son," over me, her "actual genetically related daughter," but she'd just called me the very thing I was following all the rules not to be. I was paying for groceries, for Circe's sake. I'd appreciate it if she'd recognize that fact!

I heard Harry shift from behind the couch and saw the table from the hallway float towards him. Apparently he was barricading himself in.

...Coward.

"We," I said, taking a deep breath lest I explode my own mother's head. "Are not scarlet people."

"You are so."

"We are not! I am paying for groceries! I have not used his toothbrush, towel, or razor! I am following all the Rules!"

"Oh, you are, are you? Well then would you please explain to me the use of that pair of salad tongs in your hand?"

I glanced down at the salad tongs that I hadn't realized I'd been waving about indiscriminately in my rage. I had no idea how I'd ended up with them, especially since last I remembered Harry had been using them in a very effective, if somewhat unconventional, way, and I'd been enjoying it immensely.

"Oh," I said, staring from the tongs to my mother. Then I, once again, fabricated.

"I was sorting through Harry's junk with them," I fabricated, snatching up an empty bottle of nose spray (what the hell was that doing there?) with the tongs and waving it in my mother's face. "Like a responsible witch who is organizing."

"Oh, for Aberforth's love of goats..." I heard Harry mutter exasperatedly from behind the couch. I mentally gave him the bird.

My mother recoiled from the nose spray bottle, which had just flown from the tongs and into the fire, and was now undoubtedly skidding across the Burrow's kitchen floor.

"Don't you lie to me, young lady," she said sternly, glaring out at me. "I'm going to get your father."

My eyes widened. The very last thing I wanted to do right now, the _very last thing_ , was talk to my father about Harry and my inappropriate use of salad tongs.

"Mum, don't!" I called frantically, leaning towards the fire pointlessly, instinctually trying to stop her leaving. But she'd disappeared before I could so much as feel the heat from the burning logs, and I was left staring at the bemused face of my father, his glasses crooked and his eyes baffled.

"Hello, Ginny dear," he said, reaching a hand through the Floo to straighten his glasses. "Mum said you wanted to speak with me?"

I gaped at him like a fish.

"I...I..."

Through the Floo I heard Mum's voice.

"Arthur, berate your daughter!" she ordered. "She and Harry were using salad tongs in an inappropriate manner!"

My father's eyes widened. And then his head bounced excitedly.

"Tongs?" he asked. "Are they the ones like the Muggles use to rip out each other's tonsils in purgery?"

" _Arthur_!" I heard from my mum.

"No, Dad, and it's surgery."

"Yes, surgerly, that's right," he said. "Well are you sure, Ginny dear? They look quite the same as a normal pair of tongs, very easy to confuse..."

"I'm sure, Dad. They showed me a surgical pair of tonsil rippers in Healer school. Also why would Harry have Muggle surgical equipment in his apartment? That doesn't make any sense."

"Well his aunt and uncle are non-magic, you know. Though they weren't a very nice sort. But perhaps that might make them more likely to use such things as tonsil tongs..."

He had a point, I thought, and I was about to tell him this when my mum's voice once again drifted through the fireplace.

"Arthur, now is not the time to obsess over Muggles! Ginevra is engaging in premarital relations with Harry!"

I heard a squeak come from behind the couch, and the vase that had been sitting atop the table Harry had levitated over for shelter crashed to the ground.

My father choked on a cinder. Then he turned as red as the burning logs surrounding him.

"Well, I don't know...I don't think I'm quite qualified...this isn't really my sort of conversation..." he began rambling, and then he winced as Mum apparently smacked him.

"Tell her she's not allowed, Arthur," came Mum's order. Dad looked distinctly more uncomfortable.

"Well, Molly, she is of age and able to make her own decisions," he said, glancing as far back towards the Burrow as he could. He winced again in pain. "But I suppose I never really discussed... _things_...with you."

I closed my eyes in mortification.

"Good Godric..." I heard Harry mutter.

"Ginevra," my father began, and I groaned and lifted my hands to my face in humiliation. "When a man and a woman love each other very much-"

"And are married!" came my mother's voice.

"And traditionally are sometimes married," my father consented, a wary look on his face. I could tell he wasn't looking forward to facing her wrath when he was out of the Floo. "They decide to have...well...relations."

I buried my face deeper in my hands and whimpered.

My father's voice became strained.

"And," he faltered. "And this generally means that the man must...and the woman has to...and...well, it's all very natural, of course and...it's...it's...it's like plugs!" he finally exclaimed.

I took my face out of my hands to stare at him. The room was silent but for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Even my mother couldn't find anything to say to that.

Dad turned even redder and spluttered a bit. He looked a bit like a Mandrake out of its pot.

"And sockets!" he finally said. "Plugs and sockets!"

I think I died a little bit inside.

"Because, you see, the plug must...go _into_ the socket, and then...there's eckeltricity, and...well, it's all rather _shocking_..."

My mouth might have been wide enough to fit the cow Voldemort had taken out on his way to hell in it. And possibly the Random Hilltop as well.

"And sometimes," Dad continued. He was continuing. Yes, I definitely died a little.

"And sometimes-this is why people are generally married when they...relate...with one another-things get so...ekeltric...that a short circuit is...born. And then the plug and the socket must rearrange their entire lives and it isn't an easy job, so they shouldn't make eckeltricity before they are ready to have a short circuit."

Dead. I died. A lot.

Dad finished in a rush, reaching a hand back through the Floo to adjust his glasses nervously. He smiled hesitantly.

"And that's it!" he exclaimed in a would-be cheery tone had he not been so nervous. Also had he not just explained the intricacies of sex by way of plugs and sockets. "Now you can make your own decisions with good information. I think I'll just go see if your mother needs any help in the kitchen..."

Dad's head disappeared with a pop.

I barely had time to utter a "Sweet Merlin's frizzy beard," and Harry barely had time to let out a breath and peep his head around the corner of the couch before I was staring at my Mum's head again.

"We are not finished here, Ginevra," she said, glaring out at me. "You will remove your things from Harry's flat and bring them over here at once."

The she disappeared again. My heart sank. No way could I live at my parents' house now. All I'd ever do was knit sweaters and bake mince meat pies with Mum. Because there was no way in Merlin's secret loveshack that I was every going to help my dad work on plugs again after that conversation.

"Ginny..." Harry started, crawling slowly out from behind the couch. "Ginny, what just happened?"

I stared at the flames that had so recently set the scene for the most scarring experience of my life, and that included the time Millicent Bulstrode puked on me after getting hit by the Gut-Retching jinx I'd thrown at her in the final battle.

"I died a little," I answered him. "And--"

I didn't get the chance to finish because Mum's head popped up once again in the flames.

"But first," she said. "Hermione and Ron have just arrived back at the airport from China. Your father wants to go pick them up, but seeing as how that would result in the entire Muggle world finding out about Wizardkind, I think it's a better idea if you go. It's gate C12."

And she, once again, disappeared from the fire.

And I, once again, died an untimely death.

Because, behind Mum's voice making the damning order to go pick up the bride-chicken from hell who I was not entirely convinced had forgiven me for destroying her wedding yet, I heard my father say something that I will never forget.

"Oh now really, Molly," he said. "Must we contact Bill? I had the plugs and sockets talk with her, is it really necessary to make him dig up that Chastity Belt jinx? It's such an old-fashioned Egyptian ritual, no one uses it these days. They still haven't figured out how to make the belts with anything but metal..."

**A/N: I have been informed since writing this chapter that there is a fic out there who uses the plugs and sockets idea for The Talk as well. I did not steal the idea, though I would very much like to read their version of events. If anyone could direct me to that fic, I would appreciate it muchly. Thanks!**


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